


No More

by 852_Prospect_Archivist



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Angst, Drama, M/M, Other: See Story Notes, Romance, h/c
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-11-13
Updated: 1999-11-13
Packaged: 2017-12-11 02:21:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 46,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/792938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/852_Prospect_Archivist/pseuds/852_Prospect_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The most angst ridden thing I've ridden. Blair creates a life with Rafe after Jim breaks up with him. But when a terrible accident almost kills Blair, Jim decides that he was wrong after all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

This story has been split into three parts for easier loading.

## No More

by Kadru

Author's webpage: <http://www.mindspring.com/~kadru/index.html>

Disclaimer: Everyone belongs to Pet Fly with the exception of Allyson, Burton and Sonquo. They belong to me. As usual, I make no financial claims to these characters yada yada yada so send the lawyers elsewhere. 

Notes: This slash is dedicated to Iroshi. For days I had been pouring over Beverly's Vamp Chron slash with a wonderful Lestat/Louis/David slash that had me just whipped. I was haunted by the idea of three men torn apart by love, and I wanted to write something similar but didn't know how. Then Iroshi showed me her incredibly hot "Birthday Wish" with Jim, Rafe and Blair and I knew. So this slash belongs to her because she inspired it. 

A special thanks to Jack R. Darcy for giving me the courage to do what I needed to do, and to trust my subcon's path, even when my heart didn't want to go there. This would have been an entirely different, and much worse, story if I hadn't listened to his advice. 

And hugs to my new-found friends on the senslash IRC chat group! Thanks guys for giving me the URL's for the Quechua links. See y'all in the room! 

Warnings: violence, language and graphic sex. Okay, so that's expected with me. Oh, and angst, but then, you wouldn't be reading this if you didn't like angst. But here's the biggy. I killed one of the canon characters. I didn't want to. I don't really like to read them, even, but it just sorta happened and it felt right and I'm not about to tell you who. I cried like a baby writing this story and if you want a huge catharsis, there you have it. 

That said, I must rebut by saying this slash has a HAPPY ENDING! 

Don't believe me? Then just read it. :-D 

* * *

No more I love you's  
The language is leaving me  
No more I love you's  
The language is leaving me  
in silence  
No more I love you's  
The meaning is shifting  
outside the words  
\-- Annie Lennox 

May, 2002 

With her age-speckled hand on the stainless steel door, the doctor paused for a moment, trying to marshal her energy before she stepped into the cold waiting room. Three men paced, their exhausted eyes on the flecked linoleum floor, their minds trapped in their own personal hells. She watched them, and she couldn't help but take in and read these three like a mediaeval romance -- the tall black captain with his unlit cigar, the muscular detective with the short, military style haircut and the arctic eyes, and the dark-haired, model-beautiful detective, sharp in his stylish suit, his yellow silk tie loosened about his neck -- and how none of them would make eye contact with each other. And how none of them would speak to the other. /Was it guilt? Anger? Blame? Or . . . something entirely different?/ But when they realized she was standing in the half-opened swinging doors with her respectful white robe, all three snapped to attention. 

"How is he?" they asked in unison. 

The doctor sighed. She had been in surgery since four that afternoon when they had flown Blair Sandburg in by helocopter. It was now past eight and her bedside manner had been exhausted. "Which one of you is his partner?" 

Both Jim Ellison and Brian Rafe answered, "I am." Then they glared at each other like fire. 

The doctor took a deep breath and restated her question. "Which one of you is Detective Sandburg's _domestic_ partner?" 

Rafe shoved Jim hard in the chest, his face barely disguising his burning rage. "I am." Then he turned to the doctor. "When can I see him?" 

She pulled him to the side, but Jim could easily hear her words. "I'm afraid Mr. Sandburg's suffered very severe trauma. Both lungs were pierced, and we're having problems getting oxygen to him. We were able to close the nick to his aorta, but he's lost most of his blood. He . . . died twice on the operating table." Brian's face grew pale at her words, and his entire world contracted into a single point of desperation. "That he is even alive now is a miracle." Then she touched his arm, trying to temper her harsh words with some comfort. "He must love someone very deeply." 

At the word "someone," Jim's chest clenched tightly. 

Simon interrupted the sentinel's thoughts. "What's she saying?" 

Jim waved his hand, unable to speak, hiding his panic behind the signal for silence. 

"I've moved Mr. Sandburg into intensive care. You may see him for ten minutes." With that, she pulled Rafe by the elbow through the swinging doors. 

Jim collapsed into one of the ugly, uncomfortable vinyl chairs that lined the white wall. As he closed his eyes, again the haunting scene played out for him. He and Taggart had been so focused on the car bomb planted in the Ford station wagon that neither of them had realized a second bomb lay hidden in the car parked on the opposite side of the lot. Jim heard the electronic ticking so clearly in his memory, and seconds after he had clipped the red wire and the counter stopped, the iron remembrance of how his mind suddenly opened like a flower -- knowing -- that the ticking he now heard was not the echo he had convinced himself earlier. It was a second bomb. And Blair was leaning on the car next to it. 

The same one he had made him stand near. "Don't move, Sandburg." 

"But--" 

"I mean it!" 

"Jim, I'm a fucking detective now! How many goddamn times do I have to tell you that?!" 

"I said I mean it!" 

His sentinel vision had damned him now, to envision the lurid details, again and again like a clicking metronome, as the white Chrysler Cirrus burst like a red shell, the hot shards of metal blasting through the air. How Blair had turned ever so slightly, his child-like blue eyes wrinkling, clouded by misunderstanding, before the metal daggers sliced through his innocent chest. Then the shock wave mixed with fireballs lifted him, throwing him almost fifty feet into the air, crumpling him in a ball on the rasping asphalt. 

Jim felt his bitterly-constructed world breaking apart, unable to stop it, so out of control. He barely noticed the shrapnel whizzing past him, scratching his skin. 

All over again. 

Like three years ago, when he had seen Blair Sandburg floating face-down in a murky, algae-stained fountain at the university. He was so certain he had died then. The silence of his lover's cold, hard heart deafened his sentinel ears. But the gods had spared him. He had survived. And although they had pieced together their friendship, and although Blair had agreed to return to the loft with him, when Jim had moved all of Blair's furniture into their rightful places, only one thing remained changed. 

Blair did not rejoin him in the upstairs bed. All that remained irrevocably altered. 

Blair Sandburg could forgive anyone. For most things. 

But Jim found out very quickly that Blair did not forgive rejection. 

Jim dropped his face in his hands, feeling the weight of three hard, lonely years upon him. Tears flooded into him, and he felt the judgment reassert itself. He was a worthless piece of scum, and he deserved all the pain heaped onto his pathetic heart. 

* * *

The hospital room was unforgiveablely dark. It chilled Rafe's heart to the core. Only a small light clipped to an angled, industrial piece of metal over the bed spotlighted Blair's prone form. Rafe's throat grew wrench-tight and his eyes filled, but he blinked back any tears before they could really form. With leaden steps, he came closer. He only had ten minutes, like an executioner's sentence. He couldn't waste that precious time with his neurotic fear. 

The room seemed to move around him, as if the floor determined the motion. Suddenly, he was hovering over his lover's body and his lungs quivered. Blair lay so deathly still, his lovely face blistered and bruised. Blindingly white bandages covered most of his skin, opened slightly at both wrists to allow multiple IV's. A thick, wrinkled oxygen tube ran past his swollen lips -- lips coated in Vaseline to keep them from chapping. These were lips he had kissed every morning, and every night, with husband-like devotion. An angry Greek chorus of mechanical beeps and chirps from the many machines rising up around him sounded out his weakened vitals. 

With trembling hands, Brian slowly reached out to touch Blair's swollen face. "B-B-Blair?" Then he noticed it. 

The nurses had cut Blair's beautiful, long, curly hair, shaving it extremely close to his skull. It made him look like a bruised wraith from hell. 

And like a sudden wave swamping him, the memory came, unbidden, unwanted \-- 

From two and a half years ago. Blair Sandburg, anthropology's impresario, had announced to the disbelieving world that his sentinel dissertation was a sham. His promising academic career now lay shattered and irrevocably destroyed. And not long after, Simon had presented him with his official badge, and an offer, to become a detective. After his graduation from the police academy, there had been a celebration for it, and Rafe had had way too much to drink. For several years, he had known that Jim and Blair were lovers. Not many people had figured it out, but he did. And it pained him a great deal. For all of Jim's gruff attitude and military persona, Rafe just couldn't fathom how someone as precious as Blair could be his type. He expected Jim to go for someone more muscular, more butch, more GI Joe. And Blair, well, he halfway expected Blair to be more interested in another academic or an artist. Certainly no one like himself, and most definitely not a terror like Jim. Their pairing just didn't make sense. 

Then, unexpectedly, Jim threw Blair from the loft. Rafe had been there, not really expecting anything to happen, even though he desperately wanted it. He had just offered his friendship and support. Like a good man. Truth was, he never really _liked_ Jim that much. His impression of Jim was that he was too brusque and imposing, throwing his weight and bear-like anger about like a club. Expecting people to respect him but not earning it on a case by case basis. But even so, Rafe respected him, and worked with him, and allowed the comrade-in-arms mentality to grow, but he never really thought he and Jim would be the kind of men to be close friends after work. Not enough to buy a beer for one another, and certainly not enough to rack a set of pool. 

So that night, during the celebration party, he had noticed how Blair continued to slide away from Jim any time the larger detective tried to draw him close. Enough to make him drink more than he should have, to give him courage. Because regardless of what type Jim was attracted to, Brian Rafe was brutally attracted to Blair. The long, silky hair. The earrings. The flannel. The energy. The friendliness. The mind that could speak on any subject. Brian Rafe burned for him. He had become the stuff of his dreams. 

Then Blair was suddenly at his side. 

Rafe lost the blood in his face, and he had stuttered, "Oh, uh, hey, Hairboy." 

"Hairboy," Blair had repeated. "You like saying that word don't you?" 

"Which one?" Brian had slurred. 

"Hair." 

Grinning, Brian could not resist as his right hand sank into Blair's gloriously curling hair, feeling the thick strands mesh with his fingers. "Mmmmm." 

Blair caught him by the shoulder and pushed him back. "You've like had way too much to drink, man." 

"Yeah, maybe I have." 

"Don't do something in front of everybody else that you'll regret," he whispered. 

Brian leaned in close as he replied sadly, "The only thing I regret is that I didn't have the balls to ask you out before Jim did." 

Blair eyed him for a moment with those delightful blue orbs, confused. "What did you say?" 

"You heard me. I wish I had had a chance with you." He finished his beer with one strong guzzle. After he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, he added, "Guess it's too late now." 

"You don't mean that." 

"I do, Blair. I really do." 

Blair smiled a blindingly hot grin, and Rafe felt his knees go liquid-weak. Suddenly, Blair was motioning for Jim, and Brian felt his heart jump in his chest. "Jim, help me get Rafe home." 

"Sure thing, Chief." 

Growing hot all over, Brian fumbled as Jim left to grab their coats. "Oh shit, Blair, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to say that. I mean . . . you . . . and Jim . . . I know you guys are together and --" 

"Shhhhh. Relax, man. Jim and I aren't together any more." 

"What do you mean?" 

"I took a good hard look at our relationship. And we're partners. We have to stay focused. We can't afford to let something like a lover's spat separate us. A day in a cold fountain taught me that one. So, no, Jim and I are not together." 

Jim returned, handing Blair his coat before helping a very awkward Rafe slip into his cashmere trenchcoat. "Come on, Rafe," the sentinel said. "Let's get your drunk ass in bed." 

The room and time seemed to sway as Rafe felt a suddenly uncertain world rotating around him. Before he realized it, he was sitting between Jim and Blair in the truck, with Blair opening the door. The cold air brought Rafe to his senses for a hazy moment. "Where am I?" 

"You're back at your place. Jim, you wait here in case somebody needs to get by," Blair said, pulling Rafe towards the door. "I'll see Rafe in bed and be back in a second." 

Jim only nodded, his jaw tense with unspoken secrets, but he said nothing. 

Once inside, Blair dragged Rafe towards his bedroom, dumping him on the mattress. "Do you need any help getting undressed?" 

Humiliated suddenly, Rafe wanted Blair to leave, and quickly. "I'm fine." 

"You sure?" 

"Yeah." 

"Okay. If you say so." Blair rose from the bed and crossed the room. For a brief moment, he stood in the doorway. "And Brian?" 

"Yeah?" the dark-haired detective had looked up as he struggled with the small buttons on his starched white shirt. 

"Do you want to go out sometime? Maybe dinner or something?" 

Now, two and a half years later, the man he would cut his heart out for, Blair, lay there, on an unforgiving hospital bed, his precious life perilously close to ending. And what had Brian said to him that morning as he waved to him from their townhouse door? "Don't forget to mail the water bill." 

Tears fell down his face. 

He hadn't said, "I love you." He hadn't said any term of endearment. Just something so banal and staid and meaningless. 

Sobbing followed soon after. 

The heavy hand of the nurse on his shoulders startled him. Brian swung around in shock. "W-what?" 

"It's time, sir." 

"Time?" 

"It's been ten minutes." 

Brian turned swiftly to look back at his Blair, both mind and heart-felt emotions in a daze. "No. No. I haven't even said anything to him. I didn't say anything." He looked back at the nurse, his face awash with panic. "I didn't say I love him. I didn't tell him anything. I just walked out and I didn't say anything and he may never know. Oh my god, I didn't say anything. I just didn't know!" He clutched at her arm. "Please, give me ten more minutes. Please." 

"I'm sorry sir. Those are the guidelines." 

"Please," his voice broke, the tears falling unashamedly from his red eyes. "Please." He begged as if she were the gods, as if she were the fates driving to separate him from his lover. "Please . . . five more minutes . . . one more minute . . . please . . . I didn't tell him how much I love him. Please!!" 

The nurse took a deep breath, feeling her own eyes growing wet with sympathy. "Okay, okay," she relented. "I'll come back for you." 

"Oh thank you, oh thank you." 

He turned back to face Blair, seeing him again so broken and weak in the bed. For a few seconds, his hands hovered over Blair's body, not sure where he could touch. "Blair? Baby? I'm here, baby. I'm here. They're gonna make me stay outside, but I'm here. I'm out in the hall. I'm not leaving, okay? I'll just be right outside. I love you. Oh, dear god, I love you so fucking much. Please, please don't leave me. Please. I wish I had said that to you. This morning. I just didn't think. I'll never make that mistake again if you'll just come back to me. Oh, man, I'm so fucking sorry. I'll never do it again. Please, please give me another chance. I love you." 

* * *

Simon placed his hand on Jim's shoulder, and the haggard detective glanced up, his blue eyes weary. "How you holding up, there, bud?" 

Jim shrugged his shoulders, trying to be stoic. "I'll be all right." 

"You couldn't have known." 

"Of anybody standing out in that parking lot, I was the one who was supposed to know." 

"Stop blaming yourself." 

He peered into Simon's dark eyes, and he confessed his years of silence with the words, "I have a lot of blame, Simon." With that, he stood up, crossed the waiting room, then stared out through the dark window. He could hear Rafe's pleading voice, along with the slow, steady beeping of the machines in Blair's room. What he couldn't hear was Blair's too-weak heart. 

Simon quickly read the comment. He came closer, their shoulders touching, when he whispered, "Rafe's a good man." 

"You think I don't know that?!" Jim suddenly barked. "You think I don't wake up every goddamn morning in my empty place and say to myself that Rafe's a good man?" His voice came out soft, vulnerable, hurt. "I know he's a good man. That's what makes it hurt so much." 

Simon frowned. 

"Hey, guys, is something wrong?" 

Both men turned when they heard the familiar Australian accent. Megan shucked off her light sweater, then folded it over her arm. 

"No," Simon answered. "Nothing's wrong. Did you walk their dog?" 

"Yeah. Brought Rafe some clothes and things. Figured he'd stay the night." 

At that moment, Rafe pushed opened the ICU doors and without looking, fell into a chair, propped his elbows on his knees, then held his face, sobbing. Unable to witness it, Jim turned and leaned his forehead against the cold glass window with his eyelids closed tight. Simon's breath rolled out of him as he left one drained detective for another. Sitting beside Rafe, Simon leaned forward. "How's he look?" 

"He looks like shit," Rafe answered with a quavering voice. 

Simon peered back at Jim, standing with his arms crossed over his chest. Every muscle in the sentinel strained with panic, and his heavy body began to pace like a cat. Simon turned again to Rafe. "He's alive, man. Nothing keeps Sandburg down for long." Megan came closer, then placed her hand on Rafe's knee as she bent down in front of him. 

"We're here for you, mate. Whatever you want." 

Still sobbing, Brian could only nod his thanks. "Sandy'll pull through. I know he will." 

Jim approached, his arms still crossed, but rather than look on Rafe breaking down, he focused on the crack in the silver doors that separated him from his guide. 

* * *

An ugly wind kept rushing through his hair, tangling it hard and painfully against his scalp. Blair did his best to fight the onslaught of air, his hands held up to guard his face, but even that was childishly futile. He forced his eyes open, though the dry dust stung, making then stripping the tears from his eyes. 

Once he managed to hold his eyes open, everything snapped. He saw the air hanging still like cloth. 

He dropped his hands. The wind had stopped. Blair looked around, standing in the suddenly motionless air. Strips of metal hung like ornaments, not shifting at all but frozen against the formless white backdrop. Slowly, in awe, he lifted his finger to touch the edge of a floating metal shard, and the moment his fingertip made contact, blood spurted through his skin in a thin, tight stream. Immediately he snatched his hand away and the bleeding stopped. All this time, the roar in his ears deafened him, a raspy throbbing industrial buzz that made his skin vibrate. And somewhere, deep within the harsh noise, there was another thread \-- high-pitched -- like the sad wails of a lone wolf calling him. 

Everywhere around him, the air was white. A smoky, hazy nothingness decorated with hanging shrapnel. 

Then he remembered it. 

The bomb. And Jim. 

/He was defusing a bomb. Oh my god, he didn't succeed!/ 

"Jim!" he cried out into the void. "Jim!" 

* * *

For most of that morning on the third day, Brian remained at Blair's side, stroking his lover's hand. Since midnight, the doctors had been telling them that Blair should be returning to consciousness soon. All of his vital signs pointed to it. It would only be a manner of time. They had removed the respirator after his stitched lungs had begun to inflate on their own, replacing the thick oral tube with a smaller one running into his nose. His condition had been upgraded the day before, and Brian had been allowed to stay in Blair's room continually and was not constrained to ten-minute visits every two hours. However, the number of visitors remained at a maximum of two. Brian refused to be budged, and Simon forced Jim to alternate with him and the others on the force. 

The first thing Brian had done when Blair was removed from intensive care was the replace his lover's gold ring on his third finger. They both wore them, and Rafe remembered the shock when the nurse had handed it to him when he had first arrived at the hospital. He thought then that this meant Blair was dead. Now that the band was back in its rightful place, Rafe felt that a major step towards recovery had been taken. 

As Simon slipped into the room for the first time that morning, he studied Rafe at Blair's bedside -- how he massaged Blair's hand, staring into his face, hoping, praying desperately. Simon wasn't sure when the detective had gone home since the explosion. Megan had gone over to their place yesterday and returned with yet another change of clothes, but Simon could tell that Brian had not even shaved in three days. "Hey, Rafe." 

Brian turned his dark, haunted eyes towards his captain. 

"Maybe you should shave. You don't want to scare him when he wakes up." 

With one hand, Rafe reached up to touch his face, feeling the rough hairs growing there. The expression in his eyes spoke of shock, and surprise, and a little confusion. He seemed to stare into space for a while, his exhaustion so clearly evident. "I . . . want to be here when he wakes up." As Simon stared down at his officer, he suddenly felt a spark of realization bloom inside his mind. For years, he had wondered about Jim and Blair, and then Blair and Rafe -- wondered if it was just sheer physical attraction that kept these men together. But here, watching Rafe falling apart, he knew like a revelation that these men where in love with each other. Devotion. The kind of emotional bond that made mythic romance. Something he had never felt before. And at that revelation, there came a subtle taste of resentment from having never felt that in his own life. 

As if electrocuted, Rafe jerked suddenly. His eyes snapped towards Blair as he felt his lover's hand move beneath his own. "Blair?" 

Slowly Blair began to shift, his mouth gaping open like a stranded fish. 

"Blair? Blair?" 

Simon turned when he heard a loud noise behind him. Jim had forced his way past the nurses and was barreling into the room. "What is it?" Jim asked. "What's happening?!" 

Blair's mouth continued to twitch and shake, his tongue forcing itself to work. Brian moved in closer. His hand touched the side of Blair's face. "Blair? It's okay. It's me. I'm here." 

Softly Blair whispered one word . . . 

"Jim?" 

In an instant, Jim was on the opposite side of the bed from Rafe, his hand stroking Blair's face. "I'm here, Chief." His heart was nearly full to bursting. 

"Jim?" 

"I'm here. I'm right here." 

Slowly, Brian pulled away, completely stunned. 

"Jim?" 

"It's okay. I'm here. I'm here now." Jim beamed as he continued to stroke Blair's cheek, and he could distinguish the subtle smile on his guide's face. 

"Jim." 

Rafe continue to move backwards until he noticed the unforgiving wall press against him. Blair relaxed into Jim's touch, almost purring, allowing himself to be soothed by his old lover's fingertips. He had stopped calling out, and his weak arm had reached out, cupping Jim's bicep. Rafe took a deep breath, and his eyes grew wet. Blair was folding into Jim's care so naturally, so lovingly, with an intimacy that his wearied mind couldn't recall in their own home. As the tears streamed down his wrenched face, the pain in his chest overwhelmed him, and he bolted from the room, feeling the rejection cold and hard in his ribs. "How . . . how could you?" he moaned, not sure if his heart was speaking to Jim or Blair. With unseeing eyes, he stumbled down the hall, knocking nurses and interns aside as he tried to escape. His thoughts were in turmoil, but his instincts guided his body towards the red exit signs. The electronic doors opened and Brian tumbled into the cool, humid spring air. The rough brick welcomed his body as he slumped against the wall, his knees brushing against the spiky holly bushes. Three days of no sleep and little food betrayed his paranoia and he sobbed pitifully. 

Moments later, Megan approached the entrance to the hospital, and she noticed off-handedly the odd expressions on the other patrons as they avoided the weeping man against the side wall, crouched behind the bushes. Megan shifted the flowers she carried from her left to her right hand as she came closer, and her heart went out to the stranger sobbing in public. 

Until she recognized the hair, then the clothing. In seconds, she was at Brian's feet, jerking his shoulders. "Brian? Brian, what is it?" 

Brian couldn't answer her, and Megan's imagination compiled the worst, most dismal images as she pulled the man into her arms. At that moment, the doors slid open with a hiss, and Simon burst out of them. He instantly spotted his officers and he knelt down. "Rafe? Rafe, snap out of it!" He pushed Megan back against the holly and shook Brian's shoulders. 

"What happened, sir?" Megan asked. 

"I'll tell you later. Rafe, stop it!" 

Brian continued to hide his face, pushing at Simon's hands. 

"Rafe, he didn't mean it." 

"Didn't mean what, sir?" Megan asked. 

"Connor, help me here." 

"Do what, sir?" 

"Just get this man to his feet." 

Both of them grabbed an elbow and pulled Rafe from the ground. He continued to fight them, and Simon slapped him brutally hard, leaving a cruel red mark on his skin. "Pull yourself together, man. That's an order." 

Rafe fell against the brick, and he mumbled, "Just leave me alone, sir. For once, just leave me the fuck alone." 

Days of exhaustion flared. "Fine, just sit here and cry like a baby! In the meantime, the man you _say_ you love has just woken up. There's no telling what's going on in his mind. I mean," Simon added flippantly, "hell, he's only been unconscious for three days and he's died twice and there's no telling what's happening in his brain right now, but that's okay because your fucking pride is hurt." 

Rafe eyes flashed red-wild and his fists clenched. 

Then Simon shoved his long black finger in his detective's face. "But I'm telling you this. If the only thing that's bothering you is that Detective Sandburg asked about his fellow officer before he asked for you, I will personally, and I mean personally, beat you to a bloody pulp with my own hands, is that clear?" 

Rafe could only stare at him. 

"Any time you want to see your partner, you just come right back inside." Simon glared at him one last time before storming back inside the hospital. 

Brian threw his head back against the brick, so hard that Megan instantly reacted, coming closer in case he tried again. But the distraught detective only stood there with his eyes squeezed shut. He was so tired. His back muscles ached, and his stomach felt weak and shaky. Disenchanting thoughts raced in his mind in a hot delirium and he could only distinguish snippets of images and phrases. 

* * *

Simon didn't want to deal with what he knew he had to say as he stepped back into Blair's room, but he screwed up his courage with a deep breath and he said it quickly. "Ellison, get out of here." 

Jim stared at him with astounded eyes. "What?" 

"You heard me. I just ordered Rafe back in here, and I don't want you to be in this room when he gets back." 

"No." Jim returned to caressing Blair's face. 

"Ellison, that was not a request. It was an order." 

"This is not a police matter, sir. You can't order me." 

"Actually Ellison, it is." 

Jim eyed him uncertainly. 

"Detective Sandburg has been unconscious for three days. And I don't know what stunt you're pulling here, hanging over him like some wounded lover, but Rafe and Sandburg are together. Right now, Sandburg is not acting rationally and he's just coming back. Now you need to back off." 

"I won't, sir." 

"Yes, you will. Sandburg can't stand up for himself right now, so I will, as his captain. I would do the same for you, and you know it. If you have some sort of agenda to get back with Sandburg, well, you're going to have to do it when he gets better. Not when he's on his sickbed and not when the man who loves him -- your fellow officer -- is obviously falling apart." 

"But Simon, I love him." 

Simon closed his eyes, and his tone softened. "I know, Jim. I know. Just . . . just don't be here when Rafe walks back in. Please. The last thing he needs to see is you holding Sandburg's hand. Please." 

Jim pressed Blair's knuckles to his lips, and he felt the chill of his gold ring. 

"Jim, even you said that Rafe was good to Blair. After all he's done, after how well he's treated Blair, please don't hurt him like this." 

Jim's eyes squeezed tight to fight his emotions as his tired shoulders sagged. 

"Please, Jim, just give him some space. Just a little. This is not a lot to ask." 

He kissed Blair's hand one last time, then rose slowly, unable to look Simon in the eye as he passed. 

* * *

Megan guided Rafe back to Blair's room. She felt like her body had memorized the way, and she didn't need to see where she was going. Instead, she focused on her friend, his arm hooked with hers. Melancholy circles marred his stunning face, and she noticed lines that she hadn't seen before. His jawline was darkened by hairy stubble, and to break the tension, she ran her knuckles across the sharp beard. "I think you should reconsider this look." 

Rafe huffed a short laugh, then the soft smile faded. "Thank you. For looking after Burton. And the clothes and stuff." 

"Least I can do." She patted his arm. "Burton misses his daddies, though." 

"I miss his daddy, too," Rafe replied sadly. Megan frowned, and they remained quiet until they reached Blair's room. She released his arm, and with a mother's care, began to look through all the many vases of flowers that filled the hospital room, replacing the blooms that had faded with those that she carried in her hand. Rafe didn't notice. And he didn't notice Simon standing in the corner. Slowly, and with some trepidation, he returned to his chair beside Blair. He took a few deep breaths, and took Blair's hand in his. 

Eventually, Megan reached Simon. She pulled out a drooping bloom from an arrangement near his elbow and asked, "How's Sandy?" 

"He's doing good. He came to for a little while." 

"Oh?" She shoved the remaining stem she carried into the vase, then wiped her hands on her slacks. 

Moving gracefully, Simon placed his large hand on the small of her back and guided her out of the room. Just as they crossed into the hallway, he whispered, "The first person he asked for was Jim." 

"Bloody hell." 

"Thanks for helping Rafe pull himself together." 

"Poor chap. No wonder he was falling apart. Where's Ellison?" 

"I made him take a break. Give Rafe some space." 

Megan frowned with sympathy. "That's a tough lot, that one. I know Jim loves Sandy. And I know Sandy loves Jim, too. But he loves Brian just as much. Poor guys." 

* * *

An hour later, Blair's hand jerked again. Like a fisherman guarding a line, Rafe felt the tug and he instantly lifted his head. Blair's fingers continued to twitch, and a minute later, his eyelids fluttered. In his chair, Rafe's heart raced. /Who's he going to ask for? Will he be disappointed that it's only me? Will he ask me to go get Jim? That would kill me. That would just kill me./ 

Those dark blue eyes opened fully, looked around, then his left hand wiped his face. When he brushed the awkward tube in his nose, he stopped, crossing his eyes to look downward. The pain struck him when he tried to take a deep breath, and his face wrinkled. Gradually, his eyes focused, the blurred colors growing sharper, taking edges and shadows. All this time, he could feel warmth, could sense the strength and concern holding his right hand. His vision settled on Rafe, and he smiled. 

"Hey, baby," Rafe whispered, still uncertain. 

"Where . . . where am I?" 

"Cascade General." 

"What happened?" 

"There was a car bomb. You got hit." 

"Is everyone else all right?" 

Rafe swallowed. "They're fine. You were the only one close to the car." 

"Am I . . . okay?" 

Then Rafe's eyes glowed as he said with a rush, "You're fine now." 

Blair ran his weak fingers through Rafe's thick brown hair, then he brushed his unruly new beard. "You look like shit." 

With unabashed tears, Rafe continued to beam as he said, "You look like the most beautiful thing I have ever seen . . . in my whole fucking life . . . and I'm the luckiest man in the world to have had you as long as I have . . . and if you'll please stay with me . . ." Brian couldn't finish his sentence as the tears streamed down his face and his throat sealed around his voice box. He dropped his head down on Blair's lap. 

Blair winced from the pain, and he tried to sit up but he couldn't. He rested his hand on the top of Rafe's head and asked with some confusion, "Brian, what's wrong? What's wrong? Did something happen?" 

"I was so scared," Brian answered, his voice muffled by the gray blanket covering Blair's body. "I was so fucking scared. I thought I'd lost you." 

"I'm okay, baby. I think I'm okay." He continued to stroke Brian, even though it felt like a struggle to lift his arm. 

Brian craned his head, and he looked at Blair through red-rimmed eyes. "Blair?" 

"Yeah?" 

"Do you still love me?" 

Blair's brows wrinkled. "What?" 

Rafe couldn't ask a second time. Instead, his troubled eyes stared into Blair's, waiting for the answer. 

Blair ran his knuckles along the side of Brian's hairy cheek, and then a gentle, sweet, warm smile spread across his pale face. "Brian, I love you now as much as I did that first time I realized it. . . . Do you remember when that was? . . . We had rented that cabin outside of Snoqualmie. You built that fire, and we were sitting there, not talking, and you just held me. Oh, man, I knew it then. . . . and nothing's changed . . . nothing's changed . . . now, what's wrong?" 

Tenderly, Brian placed both hands against the sides of lover's face and he carefully placed his lips against Blair's. He didn't let the kiss become too deep, too passionate for fear of hurting him, but he continued to kiss him, softly, gently, again and again. "I love you, Blair. I love you so much. I . . . didn't tell you that when you walked out of the house, but I swear to god I'll never make that mistake again." 

Blair shifted his head against the pillows, and he felt the bizarre sensation of fuzz rubbing against his skin, so odd that it sent shivers down his spine. He strained to touch his head, then rolled his eyes. "Ah, shit." 

"What is it, babe?" 

"They cut off all my hair." 

Brian grinned. 

"What are you grinning at." 

"I don't care if they painted green stars on your head, baby. I'm just glad you're back." Then he kissed Blair again. 

Seconds later, they heard a boisterous cry and the thin mattress shook. "Sandy!" 

Blair smiled weakly as he felt Megan grabbing at his hand. "Hey." 

"Don't ever do a bloody thing like that again, do you understand me? You scared the hell out of me." 

"I promise. I won't." 

"How do you feel?" 

"Like a tornado picked me up and threw me in another state." 

Megan patted his hand. 

"But, now," Blair added, "if you had shown up wearing that god-awful pink fur coat of yours, I might have thought twice." 

"Oh, is this how I'm be treated, is it?" She rubbed her palm against his buzzed scalp. "After all I've done, walking that bloody dog of yours for days?" 

"Days?" Blair looked at Rafe. "How long have I been out?" 

"Three days," he answered softly. "Almost four." 

"Four . . . ah hell . . . no wonder . . ." He ran his fingers down the side of Rafe's jaw. "Oh, baby, I'm so sorry--" 

"Don't--" Rafe shook his head frantically. "No wonder you look like this. I've put you through hell." 

"It's okay, baby, it's okay. You're alive. That's all that matters to me." 

"When was the last time you went home?" 

"I . . . . I haven't." 

"You haven't slept or eaten either, have you?" 

"No. Not really." 

"Damnit, Brian." 

"I'm not leaving you, Blair," he said with a determined voice. 

Blair sighed, and he sank his fingers in Rafe's thick hair. "Okay, okay." 

Megan patted Blair on the thigh. "Leave him be, Sandy. You'd have acted the same way." She touched Rafe's shoulder. "Just shows you how much he loves you." 

Smiling, Blair looked around the room. "Is Jim here?" 

Rafe's heart dropped past his stomach, and he swallowed hard. The look of horror was so evident on the detective's face that Blair read it in seconds. 

"Oh shit . . . is Jim all right? He's hurt, isn't he?" 

"No, Sandy," Megan began, hoping to defuse the situation. "He was just here. Not long ago." 

Blair relaxed slightly. "Good." 

Staring down at the squares and stitching on the Blair's blanket, Brian focused on the thread's exact right angles and crosses. /Dear god, please . . . no./ 

* * *

Blair's recovery quickened once he came to consciousness, as if his focus were essential to the healing process. Rafe remained at his side, not even allowing Blair to argue with him. But seeing Rafe so tired, so haggard, worried him from the start. That first night, he stared at the ceiling, thinking, while Rafe snored beside him, stretched out in the chair. The next morning, when Blair woke up, he squeezed his lover's hand. Brian lifted his eyes. "Good morning, love." 

"Hey." 

"How are you feeling?" 

"It hurts." 

"They've taken you off the morphine drip. I've got your pills. Do you want to take them now?" 

Blair's chest felt like daggers lay embedded in his flesh, digging into him with each breath. Closing his eyes slightly, he wanted one thing \-- to be able to take in one long, deep, sucking gasp of fresh air. For now, he had to accept his petty sniffs of oxygen from a tube. "Yeah. Let me have them." 

Rafe handed him the tiny paper container, then filled his cup with water. "Now, take it slow." 

Swallowing the pills, Blair clenched his eyes tightly as he felt the pills painfully slide past his wounded chest and into his stomach. Once the discomfort subsided, he relaxed some. "Shit, that hurt worse than the stitches." 

"Do you want to watch some TV?" 

"Sure. I guess. I kinda feel like I'm a time traveler, you know? What's happened in four days? Did we declare war on somebody? Anybody die I should know about?" 

Their small talk continued for most of the morning. Finally, Blair tugged on Brian's arm. 

"What is it, baby?" 

"If I asked you to do something for me, would you do it?" 

"Of course." 

"Would you go home? Get some sleep for a change?" 

"I'm fine." 

"No, baby, I mean it. This is starting to worry me." 

"No need to worry. I'm okay. I just . . . don't want to leave you." 

"Brian, these things happen. We're cops. As much as I hate to think about it, one day you're going to be in this bed and I'll be the one staying up late. You've done your vigil, man. I'm all right. I'm coming home. But, please man, please take care of yourself. For me." 

"I don't . . . feel comfortable with that yet." 

"I know. I'm not asking you to stay away. Just . . . take a shower--" 

"Are you saying I stink?" With a teasing smile, he sniffed under his arms. 

"Yes. And shave." 

"Shave?" Brian ran his hand over his beard. "I was thinking of keeping this." 

Very firmly, Blair raised his eyebrows and replied, "No you weren't." Rafe caressed Blair's arm, but he didn't budge. "Brian, I mean it. Go home. Check on Burton. Make sure he's okay." 

"Megan's been watching him." 

"It's not the same. Burton's got to be upset. When I see you tonight, I want to see you looking like your old self. Okay? Will you do that for me?" 

"I--" 

"Please. It would mean a lot to me, and I can't relax until I know you've at least gone home, slept for a few hours in our bed, had a real chance to get some rest. Please? For me?" 

Brian shook his head, but finally, he said, "Okay." 

"Thank you. I won't mind being alone. I'm about to fall asleep as it is." Then Blair considered something as he saw his lover slowly cower out of the room. "And Brian?" 

"Yeah?" 

"Be back around dinner, okay?" 

Rafe smiled, and he stood up a little straighter. "I won't be late. I promise." 

* * *

Rafe parked his car in front of their townhouse, and he suddenly realized he didn't remember how he had gotten here. Only instinct got him home without mishap. During his drive, unpleasant thoughts crowded together in his mind, each one jockeying for his attention. He knew Blair had focused all of his life on being a professor. That was his dream, and he knew in his heart that it still pained him greatly to think of what he had turned down. Blair refused to be interested in anthropology anymore. His aboriginal masks and all of his tribal artifacts collected over the span of 10 years now lay packed in boxes in their dusty attic. And each time they drove by Rainier University, Blair would grow strangely quiet. 

Attending the police academy had been tough. He had been hazed mercilessly for his privileged position, and Jim was a bear about it. He wasn't the only one. Almost all the other detectives in Major Crimes excelled in retribution for every bruise and sad look Blair brought into the bullpen. Blair was already their brother in arms and they weren't about to let a class full of uniform-hungry punks mistreat him because of his long hair and bookish ways. And that only made Blair's classmates respond even harder. Rafe remembered how his crush on Blair had intensified as he watched the man's determination grow stronger and stronger. The night came when he graduated and Simon offered him the commission, that same night when Brian had filled himself with too much alcohol and had asked Blair out. His migraine-like hangover the next morning had seemed somehow tempered by the giddiness inside from knowing Blair had actually, finally, asked him out. Not long after they had started dating, Blair had confessed to Brian the details of his mysterious relationship with Jim. Rafe knew about the dissertation. He knew about the sentinel rumors and the media circus and he knew that Blair wasn't the type to falsify data. Even so, he just _needed_ to hear Blair explain it, not so much because of the mystical, magical aspects of his bonds with Jim, but because it was such a closely-guarded secret. Having Blair share it meant that Rafe had crossed that final barrier into Blair's unreserved trust. 

Now, two years later, Rafe still couldn't shake the idea that Blair didn't belong in the force. When he was a child, Brian knew he wanted to be a cop. His father was a cop, and he grew up in that world. He knew the dangers and he knew the small rewards. He could stare unflinchingly into the horrors of the city's underbelly and take up a rough soldier's arms against it. But Blair, he had a saint's nurturing heart that cared and sympathized and honored -- one of the reasons Rafe loved him so passionately. Moving from observer to participant had removed the objectification and scientific distance, even though Rafe knew that in Blair's case, it had become pretty ambiguous anyway. Removing that thin gauzy curtain and becoming one with the other detectives was a shock to his system. It was making him harder around the edges. More like Jim. Less like Blair. 

And then, one day, he had removed his earrings. 

Watching Jim and Blair remain as tight partners was hard. He knew that underlying their esprit de corps was a more intimate past. He knew other partners felt deep, powerful love for each other because of the line of duty and the constant danger of death. In their case, adding to all of that were three years of Jim and Blair living together as lovers, knowing their secret needs and physical appetites, which caused Rafe to worry that one day in a state of weakness Blair would not be able to separate his love for Jim with their own for each other. How could they not? 

His days with Blair were numbered. 

Rafe remained in the car for several minutes, his trembling hands resting on the steering wheel, dreading the implications of Blair asking for Jim first. And Jim had remained at the hospital as long as Rafe had; his presence had been constant and unnerving, as if both men were competing to see who could make the greatest physical and emotional sacrifices on Blair's behalf. That more than anything else made Brian the most uncomfortable as he sat in the parking space in front of their home. Blair had sent him home. Would he do the same to Jim today? Or would he ask him to stay? Had he sent him home to make time, and space, for their rendez-vous? 

Closing his eyes to marshall these thoughts away, Rafe opened the car door and stepped out. The short grassy area in front of their townhouse bloomed with the verdant red annuals that both men had planted in the fall. He stopped to remember those Sunday afternoons and couldn't resist the smile. Last year, they had bought this townhouse and moved in together, and during that time they had collected wonderful memories -- dinner parties, weekends at hardware stores buying home improvement projects, evenings at local art galleries collecting small pieces to add character to their home, quiet nights together with no distractions. To think that their happy life might be in jeopardy frightened and depressed him. 

Sliding the key in the lock, he instantly heard Burton's happy bark. He rarely did that when they came home. Rafe couldn't help but feel warm inside. /He misses us./ Opening the door, Rafe had to remain stock-still as the happy dog twisted between his legs. "Hey, kiddo," he said, reaching down to scratch behind his ears. Burton was still young -- Blair found him at the pound a year ago -- a scrawny half-puppy. A few days before, he and Blair had seen an episode on the Discovery channel on the rare wild dogs of South Carolina -- a healthy breed of mid-sized, blond, short-haired dogs with sharp snouts -- giving them the appearance of a gentle smile. The basis of the old southern expression -- "yellow dog Democrat." The same breed that inspired the book, Old_Yeller before Disney cast a lab. Blair saw him at the shelter and immediately thought of the documentary \-- Brian doubted the young dog could be the same breed, but he did take an instant shine to the animal. 

Burton had since proven himself to be an extremely clever and very well-behaved pet. "Do you need to go out?" Brian asked as he stepped into the foyer, then he pointed down the hall. "Go get your leash." 

Knowing the signal, Burton hurried through the living room, turning sharply to the right to avoid the dining room and into the kitchen. Following much more slowly, Brian could hear him scratching on the back door where they kept his leash hanging on a hook. By the time he reached the kitchen, Burton had already pulled the leash down and carried it back to Rafe in his mouth. "Good boy, good boy." As he bent down to attach the leash to Burton's purple collar, the dog licked his strangely-hairy face. 

Once outside though, Burton looked at his owner, his dark animal eyes measuring both his sadness and his exhaustion. Rather than pull on his leash to play and explore, he merely answered his basic needs, then returned to Rafe's side. But Brian didn't seem to notice -- he kept his hands in his pockets, his tired eyes staring into the grass. Finally, Burton tugged on his leash, breaking Rafe's train of thought. "Okay. I'm coming." 

Back inside the townhouse, Burton didn't leave Rafe's side. He followed quietly behind him, back into the living room. The two men had mortgaged a side unit, and a large bay window dominated their main room. A fireplace with hardwood mantle took up the corner closest to the foyer. They had chosen light colors for most of the house -- an aged cream for the living room -- and after they first moved in, they had installed polished cherry crown moldings and baseboards. Blair constantly teased Rafe, saying that if someone had told him ten years ago that he would own a house this formal in decor, he would have laughed at them. But in truth, he liked Rafe's taste -- the cloisonne lamps, the dark red wood bookshelves, the prints of antique maps, the bronze statuettes. They had painted the dining room a rich green to go with the imposing dining room furniture Rafe had inherited from his grandparents, and Blair loved to serve his exotic dishes to friends there. 

Brian collapsed, full-length, on the sofa. Licking his hand once, Burton curled into a ball beside him on the persian rug. Rafe immediately fell asleep, but only for a few moments, when Burton's sharp bark woke him up. Groaning, he pulled himself up and patted the dog on the head. "Yeah, yeah. I'm going. I'm going." With his hand on the small of his back, Brian stretched, then moved towards the staircase. 

As he climbed the steps to the bedrooms upstairs, Rafe absent-mindedly unbuttoned his shirt, stripping it from his muscled chest. He dropped his shirt in the hallway, and it fell on Burton's head. The dog shook it off with a sneeze, then watched as Rafe kicked off his shoes, stripped off his pants, and pulled back the covers on their large bed. Before he finally crawled under the covers, Rafe shucked off his dark socks. 

In moments, he was asleep, thankfully free of dreams or nagging thoughts. Burton hopped up on the mattress, curling at Brian's feet, guarding one of his masters but still worried about the other. 

* * *

For a while, Jim stood outside Blair's hospital room. His sentinel hearing could tell that Blair was alone. Rafe was no where near. Recognizing this moment as an opportunity unnerved Jim a little. /What are you doing? Blair's practically married, for christ's sake. What am I doing?/ He stared up at the ceiling. /Home wrecker./ 

With a heavy heart, he entered the room. Guilt could follow him all it wanted, but love had a way of making cold, selfish, manipulative louts of even the best of saints. For the first three days after the explosion, Jim lived in a chilling purgatory -- would Blair live? -- would Blair be Blair when he woke up? -- would he forgive him for practically propping him up against that car? Then that morning came when Blair called for him first, and when he had touched his guide, he had just . . . surrendered himself into Jim's care. How many years had Jim dreamed, hoped, prayed that Blair would do that one day -- that his body would just betray his guide's sense of duty and return to Jim's arms? Jim wanted that. He wanted that more than anything -- more than his sentinel skills -- more than his badge -- and certainly a hell of a lot more than the pale, sterile life that awaited him if Blair didn't return. 

"Hello, Chief." 

Blair beamed at him as he turned off the television. That glow, with those happy blue eyes, made Jim's knees weak. /God, I want you so bad./ 

"Hey, Jim. I kinda hoped you'd stop by today." 

/You hoped?/ "Just wanted to check on you." 

"I'm okay. Really." Blair scanned Jim's face and noticed a few scratches. "You got hit, didn't you?" 

"A few nicks and cuts. Nothing major." 

"Oh." 

"Look . . . Sandburg --" 

"So it's Sandburg now, is it? This must be important." 

"Stop it, okay? I just . . . wanted to say I was sorry." 

"Sorry for what?" 

"For . . . making you stand there. I put you there, Chief. Right next to that car. I almost killed you and I can't forgive myself." "Well guess what? You're going to have to forgive yourself, because as far as I'm concerned, it's a non-issue." 

Jim sat down in the chair beside Blair's bed, the same one that Rafe had claimed for days now. They remained in silence for a while before Jim finally summoned his courage. "Blair, can I say something?" 

"Sure, Jim. What's wrong?" 

"This . . . explosion . . . well, it's made me do a lot of thinking." 

Blair felt his stomach cramp slightly from fear of what might be coming, but he forced it back quickly as being paranoid. 

"We don't say the things we need to say to the people in our lives. And when it's too late, the words stick around and get bigger and bigger until they take over. But I have to say this. I can't keep ignoring it and hoping a good time will come because . . ." he looked into Blair's eyes, "bad times come around a hell of lot more often." He squeezed Blair's hands, staring at the knuckles to keep his confidence steady. 

"Three years ago, I . . . went crazy. I kicked you out of the loft because I didn't want you to get hurt. And I wound up hurting you even more. So much, that you couldn't forgive me for it. And I knew you were right. About just staying friends. I . . . was just so thankful that you would even let me stay your friend after what I did that I couldn't risk my luck on asking for anything more. Then you were so clear on it, on us, that is . . . that we were just to stay friends and nothing more and I didn't know how to fight it." 

Blair began to grow cold. His tongue abandoned him and he couldn't speak. 

"Then you started seeing Rafe. I was so goddamn jealous but I knew if I tried anything, that you'd really hate me for it and you'd never want me around again. I was so . . . scared of the worst things that could happen that I acted like a total coward and never said what was in my heart." 

He looked into Blair's eyes. "But Chief . . . I've never stopped loving you. With all my heart. I can't even bare to think of another person in my life. I love you so much, and I can't keep hiding it. I'm sorry I hurt you all those years ago. My life has been a living hell since that day, and I can't stop suffering. I'm still in love with you." 

"Jim --" 

"Yes?" 

"No more." 

Jim's breath left him. Despite his strength, he felt a sudden frailty seep into his bones and sap his muscles. As if his subconscious had slammed down on the brakes, every thought skidded to a loud, scraping stop. "I . . . can't deal with this now." 

The sentinel's head drooped, and Blair saw it, making his own feelings of remorse flow. Jim had come to expose his feelings, make himself brutally vulnerable, and in return, Blair had just slapped him down. Poured salt, shame and rejection into his wounds. 

"This . . . isn't fair to me right now." 

Jim nodded, but he was too afraid that Blair could see the heartbroken disappointment in his eyes. "Of course. I . . . understand." 

No more words were spoken between them for a very long time. Only the background noises of the hospital -- the paging, the footsteps, the murmuring voices of the unseen nurses. The visual details seemed to stand out, as if edged in neon. The mass-produced, framed art of some cartoonish Mediterranean vista. The flowers well-wishers had sent. The silver helium balloon sinking and rising with the circulated air -- a hellish contrast to the feather-light words that had suddenly taken on so much weight that their tongues couldn't lift them. And among all these details, Jim kept his head down, zoning almost on the metal frame of Blair's bed, while the stunned guide twisted his thumb around the frayed edge of his blanket. 

* * *

Jim left without a word, as silent as a fish sinking below the surface into dark water. Blair watched him go, but he couldn't find any words to speak. Jim's confession had left him stunned. Three years had passed since Jim had first broken his heart. At that time, Blair had forced down his feelings and chosen what seemed like the most logical decision. Preserve their friendship at all cost. Only, that was not true, and he knew it. He liked to veil himself in those magnanimous terms, but they had an smoky consistency. Behind his facade lay the ugly truth that Alex had turned him into a conniving, manipulative, sneaky bastard. He had moved back into their loft, expecting Jim to be different. Only he wasn't. No lesson was learned on his part. The remorse was not there. He felt so righteously justified and that just burned Blair. Jim's territorial reaction to Alex was done for a reason and Blair could just get over it. Jim wasn't budging. But Blair had hoped, that as time went on, Jim would not be able to live, seeing Blair every day, without wanting sooner or later to return to their intimacy. 

He never made any moves. He kept his hands to himself, his words honorable, and Blair's space sacrosanct. And his respect for Blair's boundaries spoke of a cold war between them, a steady detente. 

Blair upped the ante and asked Rafe out to dinner. He made it very clear to Jim what was happening, and the pained look in Jim's eyes fed him with a sense of retaliation. But Rafe's presense in Blair's life had only caused Jim to become a silent rock carving. 

So Blair continued, and this time, in anger, he allowed himself to grow deeper and deeper into Rafe's life until suddenly he realized, one night in a cabin outside of Seattle, just how endearing this stylish detective was. How gentle. How considerate. How much he craved Blair's presence. How easily he expressed his heart. It was as if all of Jim's flaws and misgivings and compromises had suddenly been fulfilled by another man. It struck him then how wonderful and beautiful Brian Rafe really was. 

And now, three years later, Blair felt something else inside him. 

It was as if the vessel in which he had stored all of his feelings had burst, and like wine, just because it had been capped and buried for these years didn't mean that the emotions inside had dissipated. Instead, they flowed through his veins once more with a heady intoxication. All those nights he had prayed that Jim would say those very words to him, that he would say he was still in love, and to beg him to return -- had been fulfilled like a genie's wish. Or more like a wish from the monkey's hand -- here's your desire, and oh, a little curse thrown in with it. Hope it fits. Blair's chest ached and he wanted to cry, he wanted to shout and throw something and give vent to this anger at the fates that they could be so cruel. Why, after so many years, had they chosen now, when he was settled and happy and consigned to live the rest of his life at Rafe's side, had Jim returned, his under-grad dream of a sentinel knight, begging for love again? 

Although Blair had regained some sense of composure on the outside, he could feel the turmoil in his gut when Rafe strolled in. Just seeing him caused Blair's heart to instantly react, growing warm. Brian had shaved, his thick hair gleamed in the fluorescent lights, and his ivory-colored button-down shirt and his faded blue jeans hugged his sensual body. "Hey baby," he said as he leaned across the bed, planting a kiss on Blair's lips. The rich scent of cologne made Blair sigh with contentment. It was his favorite brand -- musk and cinnamon. 

/I love you,/ he thought as he watched Rafe settle into the chair beside him. /I really, really love you./ Then he cast his eyes towards his feet. /Then how is it I can still feel something so . . . much . . . for Jim?/ 

* * *

Blair's condition continued to improve, and on the next day, his doctor removed the IV's and switched him to solid food. Lying back in his bed, the former academic looked first to Brian, then to Jim, and he could see that both of them were not budging. On opposite sides of the bed, they stood over him, their arms crossed on their chests, looking down with stern, unyielding eyes. Hoping he might have better luck, Blair glanced at the foot of his bed. 

Megan pointed to the tray of food in front of him. "Eat, Sandy." 

Pouting, Blair lifted the plastic lid off the bowl. Soup. With his spoon, he stirred the thin mix, recognizing blond bits of chicken and pale rice. He returned the lid, then poked at the red jello, watching it throw back dots of pink reflections as it shook. "I really don't feel like eating, guys. It kinda . . . hurts." 

"I know you don't," Brian said, "but you have to if you want to go home sooner." 

Then Jim reached over, and with his wide hand began to stroke the top of Blair's head, rubbing his short black hair. "Eat the soup especially, Chief. That protein will help your hair grow back faster." 

Blair growled. "Remind me to kick you when you're down, big guy." 

Snickering, Jim continued to run his fingers across Blair's hair. "Any time, Chief. Any time." Then his fingers intimately drifted down to trace the square of Blair's jaw. "But you've got to stand up, first." 

He shook his head good-naturedly, delighting in the feel of Jim's skin against his, when suddenly he realized how uncomfortable that made him feel to be seen like this -- his body betraying his emotional commitment to Rafe. He shot his eyes over at Brian with a somewhat guilty expression. He reached for his cup of water. After taking a sip, he asked Jim, "Is there any ice in that container over there?" 

"Sure thing." Jim grabbed the teal-blue pitcher, then noticed most of the ice had melted. "I'll go get some for you. Don't go anywhere." 

During the entire interaction, Rafe eyed him suspiciously. His face darkened as he watched Jim stroke and caresses his lover. For days now, he had observed Jim's attempts at intimacy as well as Blair's strange, guilty reactions. After yesterday, something else had changed. Blair would vacillate between being extremely relaxed around Jim to freeze up into a state of repressed panic. Rafe still couldn't get past the shock of Blair needing Jim first before asking for the man he lived with. It was obvious to him that something had changed in Jim's behavior towards Blair, some sentinel decision had been made, and he wasn't sure how Blair felt about it. What he could sense were uncomfortable glances in his direction every time Jim caressed him. A harsh suspicion in his gut made him worry that maybe Blair and Jim had not truly separated after all, and that behind his back their relationship had continued. It made him feel like a fool, and his wounded pride inflamed his anger. As Jim walked around the bed, past Megan and towards the door, Rafe's narrowed eyes followed him. 

Blair noticed it. "Brian," he warned. 

Not really hearing him, Brian only replied, "Excuse me. I'll be right back." 

Suddenly left alone with Megan, Blair rolled his eyes and shook his head. "Jesus." 

"Something's going on, isn't it?" 

"I know Brian's jealous of Jim. He always has been, but now I think he thinks something's up." 

"Sandy, you do know that when you first came to, you asked for Jim and not Brian, don't you?" 

"I what?" 

"You asked for Jim. At least, that's what Captain Banks said. I got here right when it happened, and Brian was a basket case. Found him bawling in the shrubbery outside. He hadn't slept in days, and it just tore him apart." 

Massive guilt pressed against Blair's already sore chest. "Oh, man. No wonder he's been acting so strange. Both of them, for that matter. . . . That explains a lot." 

"I'm sorry, mate." 

"Can you go out there and make sure those two don't kill each other?" She smirked before leaving, "This should be entertaining, at least." 

* * *

Not far from the nurses area, Cascade General provided an ice and water station for patients to fill their own pitchers. Jim pressed the green button for the ice machine to begin dropping cubes. The rattling sounds distracted him for a moment, giving him a chance to reflect. He could certainly tell that the muscles around his chest no longer felt as tight as they once had -- Blair was alive, he was recuperating, and deep down, Jim knew he had feelings for him. For the first time in three years, he felt escalating hope -- hope that his long repressed desires for his guide could possibly be expressed. Now, if he would just get better so they could really talk, he might just have a chance. But a chance at what? A chance to destroy a happy marriage? For his own selfishness? 

Jim turned, and the sudden presence of Rafe's bulk blocking his path took him off-guard. Calmly, Brian removed the pitcher of ice from his hand before he could react. "Thank you, Jim." 

"Uhm . . . sure." 

"And you can go home now." Rafe's tone was not friendly, it was not warm, and it was not questionable. Jim felt his jaw instantly tense. 

"Excuse me?" 

"You can go home now. You know Blair is fine. He's out of danger and it's just a question of him getting rest." 

Jim's eyes tightened as he stared at Rafe for a moment. Then he said, "I think I want to stay." 

"Oh, you've stayed long enough. Believe me." 

"Maybe Blair wouldn't agree with you." 

Jim's words caused Brian to pull back his shoulders slightly. "I'm not an idiot. I didn't get promoted to detective because I was the last man standing after a shoot-out. I know something's going on, and right now, I think it's coming from you. And I'm not about to stand for it. Not here. Not now. And I don't think I ever will. Now," he poked Jim in the center of his chest with a bold finger, "back off." 

"You can't order me around." 

"This is not a game, Ellison. The man I love is in there, and I'm not about to sit around and watch you try and . . . seduce him while he's down. If I have to, I'll fight you right here in this hospital. I know you and Blair have this sentinel/guide thing going on, but that's on the job. Right now, Blair's with me. So go home and leave us alone." 

"I love him, Rafe." 

"Well maybe he doesn't love you," Brian hissed. With narrow, threatening eyes, Jim leaned in closer. "Just who are you trying to convince?" 

Rafe dropped the canister of ice and threw back his fist. Just as he was about to swing, Megan caught him by the elbow. "Hold up there, mate!" The momentum of Rafe's punch dragged Megan between them, giving Jim a chance to avoid the blow. In seconds, Megan regained her balance and she shoved Rafe back. "Stop it! Both of you!" 

Brian shook her off, then glared at Jim. "I mean it. Back off." Then he spun around, returning to Blair's room. 

Sighing, Megan reached down for the pitcher and scooping up the scattered ice. 

"Thanks, Connor." 

"Jim," she said with some exhaustion tinged with anger, "go home." 

"No." 

"Please, Jim. Brian's at a breaking point. You've got to give him some space. He loves Sandy, very much." 

"And I mean nothing?" 

"Jim," she said softly, "no offense, but you're Sandy's ex." 

Jim's blue eyes became mere slits. 

"I mean it, Jim. This isn't your place. Now, I can tell you want Sandy back. We all can. But you have to back down. This isn't fair to Sandy right now. Don't put him through this. Wait until he's back on his feet, and then work all this out." 

Jim peered over her shoulder, his lower jaw jutting forward. For several moments, he let the conflicting thoughts battle in his mind. Then, without saying a word, he turned, retreating down the hall. 

* * *

As Brian stepped inside Blair's room, the former academic instantly asked, "What did you just do?" 

"I told Jim to leave." 

"Why?" 

Rafe cocked his head slightly, then ignored the question. Blair rolled his eyes -- he hated it when Brian did that to him. 

"Brian, I'm really not in the mood to play referee--" "Take a pill, Blair, all right? I've had about enough of Jim for right now. I'm worn out. I haven't had a decent night's sleep in over a week. I'm worried. I'm upset. I feel guilty. I'm hurt. I feel like he's coming in between the two of us. I just . . . can't deal with Jim right now. Okay?" Rafe slumped into the chair and began massaging his temples. 

For a few moments, Blair was silent, his arms crossed over his chest. Rafe spoke of guilt; he knew what that felt like. It felt like cold paint -- thick, dark-blue, tenacious. Then he said softly, "I'm sorry." 

"No. No." 

"Come here." 

Rafe looked up at him, his hands draped over his knees. "What?" 

"Sit here. On the bed. Next to me . . . please?" 

Slowly, Rafe rose from his vinyl chair and sat on the edge of Blair's bed. Still, he didn't have the internal strength to face his wounded lover. Stroking his back, Blair said, "Megan just told me that the first person I asked for when I woke up was Jim." He waited, gauging Brian's response, but the man made no moves, his back still turned to Blair and his eyes staring at the floor. "I don't remember it. The only thing I remember is waking up and seeing you here. . . . And that's the only thing I wanted to see. I love you, Brian. I really do. I'm building a life with you. You know? . . . I know it's hard with Jim being a sentinel and all, but I think I've done a good job juggling the both of you so far. Don't you?" Waiting a second, Blair repeated his question. "Don't you, babe?" 

"I . . . I wish I knew for certain . . ." 

"I love you, Brian. I always will. You're so good to me. How can I not want to be with you?" 

Megan entered the room. "Here's your ice, Sandy," she said as she placed it on his tray. "Now," she lifted the cover of the soup, "this bloody little drama aside, you don't get to sneak out of eating your soup. Hey Brian?" 

Turning slightly, he answered, "Yeah?" 

"Make sure Sandy gets all of this down." 

With a slight smile, he replied, "I will." 

"Good. I'm out of here guys." She pressed a kiss on Blair's forehead. "I'll check on Burton. Make sure he doesn't need another trip around the yard before the morning." Then she leaned over Blair's bed to kiss Rafe on the cheek. "And thanks for getting rid of that bloody beard." 

* * *

Megan grinned as she slipped inside Blair's room. "Well, Sandy, that's the last of the flowers. They're all in your car." 

Blair looked up slightly from watching Rafe tie his shoes. They had been arguing about it when Megan had left with her last bundle of vases and balloons. Blair didn't want to look like a toddler with his lover lacing his shoes, but he couldn't bend down to touch his shoes. "I see it took you that long to win your argument. You're slipping, Brian." 

"Not for long." Brian straightened himself. 

Simon and Jim entered soon after, following a nurse pushing Blair's wheelchair. "There you go, Sandburg. Your ride outta here." 

Gingerly, Blair pushed himself off the mattress, and Rafe's arm instinctively supported him. "You know," Blair winced, "I always fought having to ride in one of these things." He gripped the gray plastic handle and fell into the chair ungraciously. Jim noticed Blair's knuckles had turned white. "But this time . . ." he let out an exhausted breath, "I'm pretty glad for it." 

"The bedroom's all ready for you." Brian said as he took his place behind the wheelchair. "Now, let's go home." He steered his lover into the hallway, and as he did, Jim took his place at Blair's side. 

"Now don't over do it when you get home, Chief. You understand?" He laid his hand down on his shoulder. 

Blair placed his hand over Jim's. "I got it, big guy." 

Rafe's eyes narrowed. 

* * *

Blair woke up in the night, his entire chest burning as he breathed. Opening his eyes slightly, he knew it was time to take another pill to ease the pain. Almost out of habit, he searched the blue-lit room for Brian. Then he felt it, Brian's possessive hand, heavy on his shoulder, mercilessly away from Blair's wounds. For a moment, Blair let the sensation drift through his body. Brian needed to feel him. When they slept, Brian had always held him, always made sure Blair fell asleep first, but now, Blair's wounds prevented him from his usual embrace. Even so, he wouldn't break contact. Wouldn't let go. 

But Brian was dead to the world. For almost two weeks now, he had remained every night at the hospital, at Blair's side, sleeping in the cold vinyl chair within reach of his wounded lover. Blair smiled for a moment as he remembered how much of Brian's toiletries had found their way into Blair's hospital room -- his razors, his shaving creams, his aftershaves, his moisturizers. The man was so vain . . . /so beautifully, endearingly . . . vain./ Blair wanted so much to roll over onto his side, to stare at his handsome lover, to run his fingers through his thick, dark hair, but his chest wounds made him immobile. 

/I must be the luckiest fucking bastard in the world,/ he mused. /Death-defying escapades notwithstanding. Ruined academic career notwithstanding./ 

/Two wonderful men. All at once./ 

Then he frowned. /Both at the same fucking time./ 

Drifting in thought, he remembered Jim. His mind opened unwelcomed images and detailed remembrances of dinners in their tight loft, dry-witted comebacks and good-natured tussles in bed. How it felt to learn about each other. Glorious afternoons when the sun broke through the omnipresent clouds and dappled the Cascades with yellow, purple and peach, when they would both spend the day hiking through the coniferous forests along the sound, avoiding the banana slugs beneath their hiking boots. Lazy Sunday mornings when they would remain under the covers and let their slow hands explore responsive bodies. Days when they tested Jim's genetic skills. Blair squeezed his eyes tight and wished away the haunting memories. 

He shifted slightly to reach for his plastic orange bottle of pills on the beside table, when Brian started to wake. Instinctively, his arm stretched out and draped across Blair's chest before he woke up completely. When he sensed Blair's body tense, he instantly resisted the urge. His tired eyes opened. 

/He stopped himself,/ Blair thought. /He stopped himself before he hurt me./ 

"Blair?" His hand returned to its safe place on his lover's uninjured shoulder. 

"Hmm?" 

"You okay, baby?" 

"Yeah, I'm fine. Just need something for the pain." 

"I left you some water." 

Blair glanced over at the bedside table, and he saw the silhouette of the glass there. His heart expanded softly in his chest. He calmly took his pain killer, then returned the half-emptied glass of water to the bedside table. 

Still in the haze of sleep, Brian pressed his forehead against Blair's shoulder, almost like a cat, and he mumbled, "I love you. I love you so fucking much." 

Blair's dark blue eyes misted, and he lifted himself up on one elbow to kiss Brian on the forehead. "I love you, too, baby." Brian smiled gently as he drifted back to sleep, his grip firm on Blair's shoulder. 

"Brian, you still awake?" 

"Yeah." 

"If you want, you can put your arm behind my head." 

Brian did so immediately, and Blair slid closer, resting his head on Rafe's shoulder with part of his back pressed against Rafe's warm chest. Brian's free hand barely touched the bandages around Blair's chest with his fingertips. Blair smiled in the dark, and he reached out, taking Brian's hand in his and resting it against his hipbone. "Is that better?" he asked. 

"For now," Brian answered. "But I want to hold you so tight that no one or no thing can ever hurt you again." 

Blair sighed softly, his chest aching with love, as the pain killer began to overtake him. 

* * *

"Help me," Blair requested softly the next day. It was after lunch, and he needed to change his dressing. He sat on the edge of their bed, and he had already unwound half of his chest's bandages. 

"Don't go so fast," Rafe offered as he stood over his lover. Carefully, he began to strip the bandages while Blair extended his arms in the air. Midway through, Rafe noticed Blair trembling. His eyes were closed, and his neck muscles were strained. "Here." Brian pulled Blair's hands down. "Rest a while. You're starting to wear yourself out." 

Blair nodded, his lips tight. "Didn't think it was gonna hurt to hold my arms up that much." 

"Do you need your pills?" 

"No. I'm okay." 

"Just bend your elbows slightly . . . There, that's it. Let me pass the bandages through." Cautiously he undressed Blair, bunching the gauze in his hands until eventually he could toss the cloth aside. Finally, Blair's chest was uncovered, ready to be cleaned, and Rafe looked into his lover's face to relish some sort of victory. 

Only Blair's eyes were closed, and his breathing was shallow. In an instant, Rafe had his knees on the mattress. He wrapped his arm around Blair's shoulder while his free hand pulled at Blair just under the knee, lifting him. "Come on, baby. Lie back. Catch your breath." Blair couldn't fight him, suddenly pale, his limp body yielding to Brian's strength and concern. His head hit the pillow and he sighed. They remained quiet for a moment as Blair caught his breath. Brian continued to cradle his head, while his fingers carressed Blair's arm. He couldn't take his eyes away from Blair's chest. They hadn't shaved him all over, only around his stitches which lay in a random cross-hatched pattern. Angry, tracked lacerations mottled his skin with black and burgundy. These would be scars both of them would have to face every day, for the rest of their lives -- a warning. And he noticed, too, all the scrapes and cuts on his upper thighs and the bruises dark. His lover had truly been battered. 

"You know, we don't have to do this. We can still do the sponge bath routine." Then a wicked smile lightened Brian's face. He traced Blair's lip with his finger. "You know I don't mind." 

"No," Blair said with determination. "I woke up this morning thinking about a hot shower, and I want one. However long it takes." 

"Okay. Okay. We'll just take breaks." Then Brian could resist no longer. He dipped his head lower and kissed Blair gently. And again. Each time, the kiss became stronger, more passionate, and Blair opened his mouth to accept him as he cupped his hand behind Brian's neck in tender union. Finally, Brian pulled away to catch his breath, his forehead pressed against Blair's. "Oh, man." 

"Brian, when this is over and I'm back to normal, I'm gonna fuck you into next year." 

Brian laughed, then replied, "I'm counting on it." 

"But first, I want a shower. I want to wash this hair." 

"What hair?" 

"Shut up." 

Brian laughed again. "I'll get the water ready and get undressed." 

"You?" 

"After that little episode just now, I'm not about to let you pass out on the tiles." Rafe kissed him again, then he carefully removed his arm from behind Blair's head. From their large bathroom, Blair could hear Rafe begin the shower, testing the temperature. A few moments later, he was back, standing nude in the doorway. Blair admired him, his arms braced against the doorframe and one leg resting at an angle. In the center of his muscular chest lay a dark oval patch of hair, thinning into a line down his hard, ribbed stomach then into his groin. His long uncut cock hung heavily against his balls. Blair could feel himself stirring. 

"You ready, baby?" 

"Oh, yeah." He said with a hint of lasciviousness. 

Brian shot him a crooked grin as he strode across the bedroom. "You want me to carry you?" 

"Give me some dignity, please." 

Rafe held out his hand to help him off the mattress. "Dignity it is." He wrapped his arm around Blair's waist for added support. 

Once inside, Blair hooked his thumb at the large garden tub. "We are going to put that thing through a work-out, and soon." 

"Agreed." Rafe opened the glass door to the shower and made sure Blair didn't trip over the tiled edge before slipping in behind him. Rafe didn't have the water at full-pressure, to prevent Blair's stitches from getting irritated, and Blair stepped into the softened flow. As the hot water streamed down his body, Blair groaned a hungry, erotic growl that immediately started Rafe's blood flowing between his legs. Brian reached for one of the many soaps they had in the shower, rubbed lather between his hands, then began to massage Blair's aching muscles. 

"Oh, man," he moaned. He turned around, letting the water pour over his back. Gently, and with studied intent, Rafe scrubbed Blair's chest, so afraid of hurting him. With his eyes closed, Blair trusted him completely, and he let the shower fall upon his scalp. He felt slippery arms wrap their way around his back as Rafe pulled him against his chest. Warm, wet lips attacked his mouth, and their hungry tongues dueled. Slickened with soap, their cocks grew hard, sliding across each other. 

Blair turned around, and Rafe slid his large cock between Blair's buttocks, his cheeks firm and wet. Brian's hand gripped Blair's fat cock and began to pump. The pleasure was so intense, after so long denied, but Blair felt suddenly odd. His skin grew cold, and when he opened his eyes, his vision seemed red and blurred around the edges. 

"Brian!" He gripped his arm tight. 

"Yes?" His voice was stained by hunger. 

"I need to sit down. I think I'm fainting." 

Brian immediately set Blair down on the tile bench in the shower, then grabbed a washcloth to wipe away the remaining soap. Quickly, he pulled Blair up, carried him out of the shower, then draped a heavy terry-cloth robe on his wet body. With no regards to his own dripping body, he eased Blair back to the bed before darting into the bathroom to turn off the shower and put on his own robe. He came back with two towels and helped Blair dry himself off fully. 

"You okay, baby?" 

"Yeah. I was just getting a little light-headed. You weren't hurting me." 

"You sure?" 

Blair sat up, and he pulled Rafe close, hugging him, his face against Brian's stomach. "I'm sure." With his arms around Brian's legs and his lover's groin against his chest, Blair could feel Brian beginning to respond. Blair pushed open his robe, and his hands lifted Brian's semi-erect cock. 

"Blair," he moaned. 

With his fingers, Blair pushed back the hood of his foreskin and licked the sensitive head. Brian shivered under his touch, growing painfully hard. The angle was easy for Blair, and he was able take Brian deep into his mouth, his tongue swirling around the shaft. His hands manipulated Brian's balls, soft and hairy to the touch. It had been weeks since Brian had been with Blair, and he had little endurance to withstand Blair's mouth. Gripping Blair's shoulders, he shouted as he came, his cock bursting at the back of Blair's throat. 

Pulling back, Blair said, "Oh, I really missed that." 

Rafe pushed him down gently on the bed. "You have no idea," he said, kissing his lover, tasting his own semen in his mouth. His frantic hands pulled Blair's robe aside, and his fingers gripped Blair's hard cock. Blair pushed his damp head ahead against the pillow when he felt Rafe's hot mouth on his shaft. 

For weeks, Brian could think of nothing more than getting Blair home and loving him again. Like they hadn't done before. This time he would know that life was impermanent, and that his days with Blair would inevitably come to an end -- maybe next year, maybe next decade, maybe tomorrow. From now on, he would cherish every moment. But for some moments, he would have to wait until his lover was completely healed. Blair spread his legs slightly as Rafe continued to swallow him. Even after two years together, Brian's jaw muscles continued to strain as he tried to take Blair's thick organ in his mouth. Now, Blair was home. He was safe. And his body lay beneath him again. He could smell the scented soap in Blair's pubic hair as he pushed Blair past his tongue, deep into his throat. 

In moments, Blair was erupting into his mouth, and Brian swallowed the bitter, salty fluid. Both men gasped to catch their breaths. Rafe slid closer to Blair, kissing him. "I love you," he whispered huskily before kissing him again. "And I'm really glad you're home." 

* * *

[Continued in part two](nomore_a.html).

Link to text version of part two: http://www.squidge.org/archive/cgi-bin/convert.cgi?filename=drama6/nomore_a.html 


	2. Chapter 2

This story has been split into three parts for easier loading.

## No More

by Kadru

Author's webpage: <http://www.mindspring.com/~kadru/index.html>

Author's notes and disclaimer found in part one. 

* * *

No More - part two 

The next morning, the sun rose on a warm spring day. Blair climbed down the stairs with Burton following carefully behind. Rafe had opened up all the windows, and Blair could smell breakfast cooking and feel the cool breezes flowing through the townhouse, lifting the curtains like ghosts. He stopped in the kitchen, leaning against the doorway, and watched his lover frying bacon. Blair didn't care for bacon, but he knew his lover was addicted to it. He had had more success making Rafe give up his cigars. Brian noticed him and smiled. "You woke up too early," he said. "If you had stayed up there a little longer, I would have brought you breakfast in bed." 

"I've been having breakfast in bed now for two weeks. It's like so grossly overrated." He sat down at their glass breakfast table and opened the newspaper. Brian handed him a cup of coffee. "Oh, man, coffee." Glancing down at the newspaper, he saw that it was Monday. "Hey, Brian?" 

"Yeah?" 

"When was the last time you went to work?" 

"The day you got hurt." 

"How'd you manage that?" 

He set Blair's breakfast down in front of him. "I took a leave of absence." 

"A what? How can we afford that?" 

"Well, you're on short-term disability." 

"But that only pays sixty-percent." 

"And I have a bunch in savings. If we need to, I can borrow off my 401(k)." Blair frowned. "Money's tight as it is." 

"I know, Blair, but --" he sat down at the table and took Blair's hand in his own, "-- this is important. You got hurt, and hurt bad. It means a lot to me to know that you'll be okay. We have plenty of money we can borrow off of. Okay?" 

* * *

By the end of the week, Blair had succeeded in forcing Rafe back to work. He still called home every hour, and he rushed over for lunch each day, dragging Brown with him. But with Brian gone, Blair had a real chance to rest, lying on the sofa with Burton at his feet, reading, watching television -- old movies on AMC. Even so, he was looking forward to Friday, when Rafe would return for a weekend at his side again. 

Blair turned the page in the book he was reading when he heard the doorbell. "Just a minute," he shouted as he flung the quilt aside. With slow steps, he approached the door and looked out through the window. 

Jim. 

He took a deep breath, then opened the door. "Hey, Jim. What's up." 

"Just came to check up on my partner." 

"I'm okay." 

"So, how're you feeling?" 

"I'm okay," Blair repeated as he turned away from the door. He left the tight foyer and entered the cream-colored living room. 

Following him, Jim noticed that Blair continued to stand. He saw the crumpled blanket at the foot of the couch and the discarded book. He knew Blair had been lying down before he had opened the door, but now he chose to stand. It was Jim's presence and Jim's presence only, that prevented his guide from relaxing. "Do you . . . need to lie down or something?" 

Blair turned, his expression staid and formal. "No. I'm okay." He let silence block the room for a moment before adding, "How's the Braxton case?" 

"Fine," Jim answered. "It's going fine. Megan's on it with me, now." 

"Oh." Blair returned to staring out the bay window. 

"Uhm, Blair?" 

"Yes?" 

"Can we . . . talk? Finally?" 

When Blair turned to face him, his arms remained crossed on his chest. "About what, Jim?" 

His voice was so cold that Jim was taken off-guard. "About . . . us?" 

"As partners . . . or what?" 

"I . . ." Jim shoved his hands in his pockets and stared down at the beige-carpeted floor. This conversation was spinning out of control before it had even started and it was becoming a lot harder than he had at first imagined. 

"I'm with Brian now." 

"And what I feel, that doesn't mean anything?" 

"And it should mean what?" 

"Blair, I love you. Can you honestly stand there and tell me you feel absolutely nothing for me?" 

Blair cast his eyes downward. He couldn't. He loved Jim. Wanted him. But not like this. "What do you want me to say?" 

Jim threw up his hands. "Jesus, Blair, I don't know. But, I can't stop this feeling. I've had it for years now, and every day it hurts even more. And then, to see you lying there in that hospital bed and think that you might have died and that I would have lost any chance I ever had at . . . going back to what we once had--" 

"What we once had? And when was that, really? Before you kicked me out of the loft when Alex showed up?" 

"Blair, I said I was sorry." 

"No, Jim. You never did. You never once said you were sorry." 

Jim's ice blue eyes widened with shock. "What do you mean?" 

Blair's desperate hunger and frustration turned bitter in an instant. "I can't believe you have the gall to pull this! How long have you felt like this?" 

Jim gapped for a moment before answering, "For years now." 

"Years? Years? Did you feel this way on that day I was in the hospital after Alex killed me?" 

"Well, yes." 

"And you didn't say anything then?" 

Jim remained standing in the living room, unsure what to say. "You told me you didn't want us to be together. What was I supposed to say?" 

"Well, what did you say that first day in the hospital? Huh? Don't you even remember it? I wake up out of intensive care and the first fucking words out of your mouth were some stupid joke about the rent. The fucking rent! How the fuck did you want me to react, huh? And for days later! And then, on that goddamn beach in Central America you went to her! You fucking ran away with her! Goddamn it, Jim, I was not about to go back to you like that. Not without a real, honest reconciliation. I even moved back in with you, thinking eventually you'd come around, but you never fucking did. For months afterwards, you never made any attempt. I sure as hell wasn't going to be the one on my knees, begging you to take me back. Not after the way you treated me. And now you're telling me that all this time you've been in love with me? Is that what you call love? And so now I'm with Brian and we've got a goddamn house together and a dog and . . . and . . . and you expect me to even listen to this crap? What the fuck am I supposed to do? Leave Brian and go back to you?" 

The detective couldn't face Blair's anger, and his dejected eyes stared down at the carpet. 

"You want me to hurt Brian? The one man who's never even thought of hurting me the way you did. The one man who wanted me when you didn't?" 

"I wanted you," Jim offered lamely. 

Blair threw up his hands. "Jesus, Jim. I don't need this." His tone of voice changed, became more vulnerable, as if he were trying to bolster his own vacillating heart. "I'm with Brian." 

"But you almost died, Blair. I almost lost you a second time. How many more chances am I supposed to get, huh? I want you. I love you." 

"And how long is that supposed to last?" 

"What?!" 

"Until another Alex walks into town?" 

"No!" 

"What happened then, huh? All those protestations of love? What happened then? You kicked me out of the loft, Jim, like a piece of filth and you got me killed in the process." 

The color drained from Jim's face. 

"Oh, no, I haven't forgotten about that. No sir. And at the time you seemed all too happy to take my offer to just stay friends and not go back to being in love. Even . . ." Blair's anger blocked him from the words for a moment. "Even when I sacrificed my entire academic career for you, you never once mentioned that you loved me?" 

"But I . . . I didn't know." 

"Didn't know what, Jim? I thought you just said you knew that day after the fountain that you loved me." 

"No . . . I mean . . . I didn't know you felt the same thing." 

"Oh, I see. Everything's conditional with you. You won't love me unless I tell you I love you first. Is that how it works?" 

"No . . . I . . . I thought you didn't love me. There's a difference." 

"Oh, I see. There's a difference. That's just great, Jim. Now what the fuck am I supposed to do?" 

Jim's own anger burst open. "Well, if you don't give a damn about it, then I guess there's nothing you need to do!" Jim waved his frustrated hands at Blair. "And I guess you don't have to _do_ anything!" 

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean? Do you have any idea what you put me through that year after Alex? I woke up every goddamn morning thinking you would come to your senses--" 

"My senses?! Blair, you told me you didn't want to be lovers anymore!" 

"That's right, Jim. I did. And not once did you disagree with me." 

"All this time, that's what you wanted? You just wanted me to _disagree_ with you? Blair, you hurt me--" 

"I hurt you?! I hurt you?! I don't recall _you_ being dead!" 

Jim rolled his eyes. "Jesus, Blair." 

"You never once had to find some place else to live. After that, did you want me to trust you again?" 

"Look, I'm sorry, okay? I fucked up." 

"Oh, that's like such an understatement. You fucked up, all right. And you got me killed in the process. I'm not about to take that kind of chance again." 

Jim rolled his head slightly as if trying to shake off a hard-fisted punch. After a few deep breaths, he started again. "Okay. Okay. Yes, I fucked up. And I did feel pain. Everyday going back to the loft and you being so goddamn flippant and just acting like what we had never happened. It hurt. It hurt a lot, Blair." 

"Pity." 

"Yeah, pity. And all this time, I've been going back to an empty loft, our place, and every night, you've been coming back here, with Rafe. You've had somebody, Blair. I've had no one. I'm the one who's been alone. So don't talk to me about being hurt. I'm the one whose been hurting all this time and I've been taking it while you've been in this nice little domestic paradise. And I don't want to take it any more. I love you. I'm sorry. I hurt you and I didn't mean to. I'd cut my right arm off to make it better. I'd go back in time and stop it. I'd take a year off of my life to change things. I love you. But apparently, that doesn't matter to you." 

Blair remained in front of the bay window, the light glaring off the scalp of his buzzed head. He kept his arms crossed on his chest. From across the room, Jim could see his eyes filling up with tears. 

Suddenly the front door opened. Rafe pulled his keys from the lock and saw Jim standing there. He remained frozen in the foyer before finally he asked, afraid of the answer, "Jim? What the hell are you doing here?" 

"He was just leaving." Blair answered for him. 

Jim turned to protest. "Blair . . ." 

"Get the fuck out, Jim. Now." 

Jim's breath gasped in his lungs, and he quickly spun around, knocking Rafe aside as he darted from the townhouse. When Rafe slammed the door, Blair jerked slightly. 

Brian instantly noticed his wet eyes. "Blair?" 

"Yeah?" 

"You okay?" 

"I'm fine." 

"What was that all about?" 

"It was nothing?" 

Rafe twisted Blair around and quickly read the futile attempt to hide his sad eyes. "That was not nothing." 

"Leave me alone, Brian." Blair pushed him aside, then crossed the room to climb the stairs to his bed. 

Through the beige crosses in the bay window's panes, Rafe clearly saw Jim's blue truck speeding away, and his stomach felt cold and tight. His knees grew weak and he collapsed into the wing chair closest to him, his face falling into his hands. He could clearly feel his life with Blair crumbling around him. 

* * *

Lying on their bed with the pillows bunched behind his back to provide support, Blair tried to read. After the fiasco over his dissertation, his reading taste had taken a radical change. He could no longer abide anthropology. It reminded him too much of what he had left behind, and the nostalgia and homesickness hurt too much. Now, he stuck to mystery novels and espionage. Pulp fiction that kept his imagination active and his eyes strained. But that evening, he only sat there, his knees propped at an angle on which to rest his book. He hadn't even turned the page. For almost a minute, he could tell Brian was standing in the doorway of their bedroom, his arms on his chest, staring. 

Finally he crossed the room and sat down on the bed, dipping the mattress next to Blair's feet. He continued to look down at the floor as Blair peered at him over the rims of his oval glasses. 

At last Blair spoke. "What is it?" 

"I've been doing a lot of thinking." 

"And?" 

"I love you, Blair." His eyes glanced up at Blair with a tight, closed-mouth smile before breaking eye contact again. "And I want you to be happy. That's what means the most to me." 

Blair remained silent, the book in his lap, Burton sleeping at his side, and he continued to look at Brian over the wire edge of his glasses. 

"If . . . Well . . . I know you've known Jim longer than we've known each other. And you and Jim . . . have this sentinel-guide thing going. I know . . . that's important." Brian took a deep, pained breath before his quivering voice continued. "If you . . . want to be with him--" Tears started to fall from his eyes, but he made no move to wipe them from his cheeks. "--then I think you should be with him. I won't stand in your way. I just . . ." His throat grew too tight to speak, and when he finished, his voice was raspy and high pitched. "I just want you to be happy." 

Slowly Blair closed the book and set it aside on the bedspread. Then he lifted his glasses from the bridge of his nose, folded them, and placed them on the bedside table. He took a deep breath, knowing that moving was going to hurt, but he shifted his body closer to Brian. Blair placed his hand on top of Brian's, even though that man still couldn't look at him. 

"Do you want me to leave?" 

Still focused on the carpet, Brian whispered. "No. I want you to stay with me forever. I want to grow old with you." 

"But you want me to return to Jim?" 

"I . . . want you to be happy. Whatever that's going to take." Rafe turned slightly, and his arms wrapped around Blair's angled legs. He pressed his face into Blair's knees. "I . . . just wish I could have one thing." 

"What's that?" 

"Before you go . . . I just wish . . . you were well enough . . . that I could hold you. I took it for granted before. I thought we had all the time in the world. If you're going to go back to Jim, I just want to be able to remember what you felt like." 

Blair felt his chest grow weak and warm. "Brian," Blair ran his fingers through Brian's hair. "Jim and I are inseparable. That's a given. But I have to make good choices. Jim loves me. I know he does. And I love him, too." Blair could feel Brian's arms grow limp around his legs. "He tells me that he hurts without me, and to be honest, that makes me feel bad." 

"I would die if you left me." 

Blair continued to stroke Brian's hair. "I know, baby. I know. And I know this is scaring the hell out of you, and I'm sorry. I didn't ask for this to happen and it's killing me to see you hurt and know I'm the one who's doing it. Truth is, I want you to be happy, too. You mean so much to me. Sometimes, I love you so much it hurts. Please know that. And I don't know how I'm going to do this, but I've got to figure out a way to staying with you and not hurting Jim." 

Carefully, Rafe pulled himself up onto the bed beside Blair. With his arm behind his lover's head, he guided him down to the mattress, and then he began to kiss him, deeply, as his heart felt full to bursting. 

* * *

The room was dark and dusted with blue when Blair felt something light and feathery against his skin. As he grew more conscious of his surroundings, he realized that the touch was Rafe's fingertips, gently tracing the contours of his body. Blair waited for a long time before speaking. He wanted to enjoy this as much as possible, this expression of closeness. For a long time, he had wanted a man like this in his life -- one who appreciated and needed touch. He had thought Jim had been that man, until the day Alex entered their lives and Jim had freaked. And, as if in reward for his patience with Jim, the gods had rewarded him with Rafe. /Rewarded? No. It's more like, taught me a lesson./ 

Finally, Blair whispered. "I like it when you do that." 

Brian's hand froze. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to wake you." 

"It's okay. It's a nice way to wake up." 

"I couldn't sleep." 

"Demons?" 

"I . . . I guess." 

"We . . . this isn't going to go away on it's own. I've told you time and time again that I'm not leaving you, but you don't believe me." 

Brian let his breath escape his lungs in a single rush. "I know. I'm sorry. I'm trying. My brain tells me I'm a fucking idiot . . . but my heart . . . still hurts a little." 

Blair rolled onto his side to face his lover. With his hand on Brian's face, he said, "I know. I'm sorry. I planted something in there. I didn't mean to. It's . . . it's inside me, too. Before . . . we got together, I wanted Jim. I wanted him so bad, but he just . . . never made it known that he wanted me. So . . . I went on with my life, and I fell in love with you. And it's real, this thing I feel for you." 

"But?" 

"But . . . Jim's been asking me back. I didn't ask him to and I didn't want him to. He just did it all of sudden." Blair could sense Rafe's muscle tense like a plucked guitar string -- angry, furious, possessive. "Calm down," he whispered firmly. "Nothing's happened. Nothing at all. I told you . . . I made a choice. I'm not leaving you. That's final." 

"You made a rational decision," Brian replied, "but it doesn't always work that way." 

"In this case, it does." 

"You feel something for Jim. I can tell it." 

Groaning, Blair rolled onto his back, but his hand instinctively found Brian's in the dark, gripping it hard. "It don't want it. I don't want these feelings. I want you. I don't want Jim." 

"But your feelings aren't going away, are they?" 

"No." 

Silence crept into the room. Not even Burton made a sound from his tight ball at the foot of the bed. But Blair wouldn't let go of Brian's hand. It felt like a lifeline, and if he were to let go, he would incur disaster on them all. At last, Blair whispered, "Brian?" 

"Yeah." 

"We both need to heal." 

"I . . . don't know how." 

"Let's go away. Let's go spend some time together. Not in Cascade." 

"Okay." 

"Someplace warm." 

Brian laughed softly in the dark. "Okay. Tomorrow, we'll get on the computer. Call our travel agent. See what we can find." 

"Can we afford it?" 

"Blair, we can't afford not to. I'll call the broker on Monday. We can place a loan against my 401(k)." 

"We shouldn't do that. We'll need that later." 

"Blair, if we don't spend the money now, on us, there won't be a later." 

* * *

/When did this place ever get so small?/ Jim thought as he looked around his loft. All those years with Blair in this tight rectangle of hardwood and brick, the loft seemed cozy and welcome -- fireplace, balcony, skylights letting the amber streetlights flow in at night, the gray sunshine during the day. The music floating in the room. Jim smiled in spite of his depression as he thought of Blair's young form gyrating to whatever CD he would play. /Never again. I guess those were my salad days. The days of wine and roses./ 

That first night back home after Blair had soundly trashed any hopes he had of bringing his love back into this place of hard angles and industrial colors, Jim saw very succinctly how his life would play out. Every day, he would open this door, close it, drop his keys in the basket, open the refrigerator, grab a beer, then turn on the television and watch the blotches of colors move in synch to the sound. No conversation. No friendly bickering. No dinners waiting, lovingly cooked. No chance to return the favor. 

And every night, he would pull back the cold sheets and slide inside them, the lack of warmth making his body shiver. 

He almost felt like his whole life now could be described that way -- a cold bed with no one inside for him. 

Returning home after his fight with Blair, Jim had collapsed on the sofa, his hands covering his face. All hope was gone. For three years, there had been hope. There was always a possibility that Blair would come back. It was probable. Not any more. In a tumble, all of Jim's errors and mistakes toppled onto him like hard-edged books from a jostled bookcase. He had fucked up with Alex. He had fucked up that day of the fountain, and his search for Alex in South America was even worse. The more he remembered it, the more the memories came back like a torturous advent calender -- peel back each day and reveal yet another chance he should have said something to Blair -- like that night in the church when Blair wanted to . . . be with him . . . like old times . . . like lovers -- and he had literally pushed him back, his hand on his forehead like a dog's. Even when Blair sacrificed his academic dreams for Jim. Nothing. 

But the most monstrous error raged in his brain. The irony of it. If he had just kept his big fucking mouth shut, he would still have hope. But he had to rush it, had to fly in like a bull after the car bomb and dash the china. And Blair had shot him down, taking hope with him. /I just . . . didn't know. I didn't know what would happen. If I knew what would have happened, I wouldn't have said it! I wouldn't have said any of it. Jesus Christ, why is it that whenever I do something I think is right, I end up doing the worst thing possible?/ 

He had cried that night. Simple, stoic tears, like a miraculous leaking statue. Afterwards, the emotional scar he carried lay centered in his chest. Hard. Cold. Heavy. As if his ribs had turned into a dark spider, clutching him. 

And now, Blair and Rafe were flying to Key West together. They had left on the plane that morning. Neither of them knew that Jim was in the distance, his sentinel vision taking in every motion, his hearing focused on their words to Megan and Simon as they boarded. A four day vacation. Jim knew why. Blair needed to concentrate on Rafe. To close up all the wounds that Jim had made, both physical and emotional. He hadn't meant to hurt his guide. He never had. Every choice he had made for the past six years resulted in one result -- hurting Blair. 

Jim wrinkled his brow. There was a sound -- annoying -- and he realized that he had been hearing it for a while. 

"Ellison?! Are you in there?" The pounding on his door echoed in the loft. 

"Coming!" he shouted back. It didn't take much of his senses to smell Simon's cigar. Jim rose from the sofa, then put his body in motion to open the door. "What is it, sir?" he asked when face to face. "Do you need me?" 

Simon remained silent in the doorway for a moment, appraising his friend. "I came to ask you that same question." 

Jim shook his head with mock annoyance and he left the door open as he returned to his sad spot on the sofa. "I'm fine." 

"Just needed to ask. Everybody's been so keyed up about Sandburg and Rafe, I didn't think they were giving you enough attention." He sat down next to Jim. 

"What do you mean, sir?" 

"Cut the 'sir' bullshit. It's just us right now." He chewed on his cigar for a second, then added. "You aren't doing so well right now, either." 

"I'm doing okay." 

"Yeah. Right. For one, you weren't responsible for what happened with the bomb. We have that son of a bitch locked up and he's not about to see the light of day again." 

"I know that." 

"You may know it, but I know Jim Ellison and I bet his heart thinks something different." 

Jim picked himself up from the sofa. "My heart has other things on its mind. Do you want a beer?" 

"Sure." Such an Ellison tactic. Temper an emotional statement with the practical. He waited for Jim to return with the cold beers before he started again. "What's bothering you?" 

"I'm all right, Simon." 

Simon shrugged his shoulders. "Maybe you are. Maybe you aren't." 

"What's that supposed to mean?" 

"Means I've known you longer than anyone else." 

"I'm fine." 

"Look Jim, if you won't broach the subject, I will. I know this hurts with Rafe and Sandburg." 

Jim closed his eyes. "I don't really want to talk about it." 

"You need to. Need to get it out." 

"There's nothing to get out." 

"Oh, there's a lot to get out. You may not know how the pieces need to fit, but they're in there." 

Jim sighed. "I lost him." 

"Yeah," Simon answered sympathetically. "You did." 

The finality of Simon's words shot through Jim like an electric shock, stopping his heart and lungs. They came back online, and he guzzled from his beer. 

"But that doesn't mean it's the end of the world, Jim." 

Jim couldn't answer him, couldn't think of a response. 

"There are other people in this world. Hell, there's 220 million people out there. Blair's not the only man out there, any more than Carolyn was the only woman. I mean, hell, Jim, when Carolyn left, did you have any idea that someone like Blair would take her place?" 

With both hands around the neck of the bottle, Jim rested his beer between his legs. "I don't . . . I don't want to hear this right now, Simon." 

"I know it hurts, friend. But I remember you telling me this same thing, not long after my divorce. These things happen. We get over them. But Jim, it's been almost three years. You need to stop. You need to move on." 

"I understand, sir." That rigid voice was back, and Simon heard it clearly. 

He tried another tactic. "Jim, just try to imagine what that other person will be like. Think about the things they'll do or say. Jim, happiness is out there. You just have to believe in it." 

Jim rolled his head around on his neck, to tired really to think about it now. He patted Simon on the thigh. "Thanks, Simon. I appreciate the thought. But it's not helping. Maybe later." 

"You did something, didn't you?" 

"Yeah, something stupid. And I got shot down for it. So . . . it may look like three years to you, but it's only a few days old for me." 

"Jim, I'm sorry." 

"Don't mention it. You're a good friend." He bent down and picked up the remote. "Now, let's see if there's a game on somewhere." 

* * *

The warm water surrounded Blair, lifting his arms and legs toward the surface, enveloping him in comfort and tranquility. For over an hour, he had floated here, a small air pillow clutched to his chest, keeping his head above the water as his body drifted in the pool. When he and Rafe had researched the island to find a place to stay, countless "clothing optional" locations presented themselves. Back in Cascade, the computer screen casting their faces with a pale blue-white, the two men looked at each other for a second, considering, before both of them said at once, "Nah." Neither said their reasons, but Blair was still a little self-conscious of the random red stripes across his body and his patchy chest hair. Rafe, on the other hand, knew these four days were crucial to healing more than just Blair's physical wounds. He wasn't so sure if he wanted to have one or the other of them distracted. 

They had chosen a small bed and breakfast, and when they had placed the reservations over the phone, Rafe had said to Blair, "Oh yeah. He's gay." 

"Like you can tell over the phone." 

"Yep. I could tell." 

"What if you were talking to a really butch woman?" 

"Well, that would be a given --" he had winked at his lover, "-- if I was talking to someone who was really butch." 

They had reserved the largest suite with a king sized bed, massive bathroom, and a jacuzzi perched on the balcony overlooking the back garden and the pool. After stopping off in Atlanta, their flight had landed late in Miami, then they had to wait for luggage and stand in line for their rental car. In the crowded Miami airport, Blair groaned with impatience and drooped against Rafe's side. Brian's arm immediately slipped around his back. "We'll get there, baby. Just hang on." 

"We left so early." 

"I can't believe Simon and Megan showed up." 

"Megan, yes. Simon, no." He lifted his head from Rafe's shoulders. "That meant a lot to me, you know?" 

"Please. Simon adores you. We all think it's funny." 

"Funny, huh?" He nudged Rafe's flank with his elbow. Then Blair yawned. 

"Hang tight," Brian added as they approached the rental car desk. "When we get to the B &B, I'll give you a nice, long --" he drew out that word "-- backrub." 

They had one more hour left of sunlight when they drove onto the island. Their innkeeper beamed when the two walked in, and he hurried from behind the counter. "Oh, bless your hearts, y'all made it." He was a thin, small man with a kind face and thick sun bleached hair. He took Blair's bags, hefting them under his arms before reaching for Rafe's. "Come right over here and we'll get y'all checked in. How was the flight?" 

"Long," Blair complained. 

"How do you know who we are?" Rafe asked. 

The innkeeper had smiled and tugged on Rafe's sleeve. "Honey, nobody here wears flannel in June. Ya'll have to be the boys from the Great Wet North." Once they were unpacked, they had just enough time to find a restaurant, then a leisurely stroll along the beach. 

Now, floating in the pool, Blair sighed as he felt a sliver of a breeze brushed across his back. He heard a voice call out, "Hey, Blair? You need anymore sun block?" 

He opened his eyes and noticed Rafe standing nearby, his swimming trunks tight and his muscles already tanned by a full day in the sun. Blair grinned cat-like and he replied, "What I need is you." Rafe dropped the tube of sunblock and with a graceful lunge, threw his long body into a dive. The splash covered Blair with water, and in seconds Rafe popped up behind him, his arms viselike around Blair's waist. His teeth nipped the back of Blair's neck as his groin pressed against him. Blair arched his back, releasing the air pillow and floating into Rafe's grip. His suction on Blair's nape increased, and he knew he would have a mark there, but he didn't care as he felt Rafe's cock strain against his bathing suit. "Brian," he moaned, and he felt his lover's hand squeeze him between his legs, pressing his rear even harder into Rafe's grinding crotch. "Aren't you tired yet?" 

"Never," Rafe answered as he pulled Blair towards the side of the pool where a small fountain dribbled water, obscured by red hibiscus blooms. Blair twisted in Rafe's arms, then propped his elbows on the edge of the fountain. Hungry, Rafe continued to suck on Blair's neck, and his lover craned his head back to give Brian better access to his throat. His biting journeyed to his shoulder, then his collarbone. Lifting him in the water, he attacked Blair's nipple ring, tugging on it with his teeth. 

Blair ran his fingers through Rafe's slick, wet hair, and he moaned as his lover's lips maneuvered around his chest, then down along the line of hair on his stomach. The tip of his tongue drilled into the pit of his navel, and Blair gyrated his hips against Brian, his heart racing. He felt Brian's fingers pull on the waistband of his swimsuit. 

"Brian! Not here!" 

Rafe winked. "You only live once, Blair Sandburg." Then he smirked, "But in your case, I'll make an exception." 

Blair felt his trunks bunch around his knees suddenly, and Rafe took a deep breath before diving under the surface. Above him, Blair's eyes thinned into mere slits when he felt Brian's hot mouth engulf his cock. Floating there, caught between the hot suction and the cold water trickling from the fountain, Blair drew in the scents of hibiscus and gardenia and let his full heart roam the bliss. 

* * *

Jim pulled his revolver from his holster. He stared at it for a moment, feeling the heft of the gun in his hand, tugging at his wrist. The black metal felt cold, familiar. The rough diamond-scored edge of the butt hugged his palm. Taking a deep breath, he let the L shape draw him into a state of mind devoid of thoughts -- one of pure emptiness -- where the only thing he could feel was the darkness in his heart. Mechanically, he popped the magazine clip from the gun, catching it deftly and placing it on the coffee table. Snapping the spring-loaded slide, he drew it back. His fingers picked out the single bullet already loaded in the chamber. Like a metal chess piece, he set the bullet on its end on the tabletop. The gun was unloaded. Empty. Like his loft. Just a worthless piece of carefully crafted metal with no purpose or power. 

Jim watched as his hands began the process, the process he had learned in the Army, had been forced to endure a second time in police academy, and a routine he did every week. First, he took a small rod tipped with cloth and dipped in copper solvent. He snapped a muzzle guard to it so the metal wouldn't scratch the inside of the barrel. With back and forth strokes, like the motions his hands made on Blair's back to calm his guide on anxious nights, he cleaned the bore, removing any fouling from inside. But Blair was gone. Not only had he rejected Jim, but he had flown away to Key West to cement his relationship with Rafe. Shore up the damage Jim had caused like a loose cannon in his heart. 

He pulled the rod free and closed his eyes. Blair was cleaning Jim out of his system, the same way Jim was cleaning his gun. 

Next Jim picked up a phosphor bronze brush and force it into the bore, this time from the back of the chamber. How was he to know that Blair had waited for six months for Jim to say he was sorry, that he wanted to be lovers? /I'm not a fucking mind-reader. . . . and what the hell was I supposed to do? He said he wanted us to just stay friends. Was I supposed to argue with him? Piss him off so much that he would just turn around and say, "Hey, Jim, ya know what? This is so not working. Let's . . . let's just forget about it, all right?'/ 

Jim picked up a clean patch and pushed it into the back of the barrel, again and again, until no further bits of residue darkened the cloth. /I would have, Blair, if I'd known. I'd have dressed up like a fucking monk and begged you to forgive me. I just . . . I just didn't know./ Sighing again, Jim took a softer brush and applied a small drop of lubricant to it, which he then brushed inside the bore. /It's because I'm stupid. Blair put me through one of his fucking tests and I didn't pass. I fell flat on my face and then he knew he didn't want me. Probably something his mother taught him. Hell, she went through her share of men. I guess Blair didn't fall far from that tree. Poor Rafe. Your time's coming, my friend. Just wait until you get knocked down by Hurricane Blair./ "We'll see who's on top then!" 

The echo of Jim's voice in the loft caused him to jump slightly. /Shit, now I'm talking to myself./ In a fury, he disassembled the remaining parts of the gun -- the trigger, the top strap, the forcing cone and ejector, the slide. With heated strokes, he scrubbed the parts with a nylon brush, scrubbing harder and harder, more frantic with each motion, until finally he threw everything down with a shout and leapt off the couch. He braced his hands on his hips. His lips closed as tight as his eyes, creating a map of miserable wrinkles on his face. The skin around his chin bunched and twisted into a craggy mass and one single sob broke from his mouth. 

He forced his breathing to be deep and even, regaining control of himself. Slowly, he settled himself back onto the couch. He saw all the broken pieces of the gun spread around, and his mind couldn't help drawing the connections to his own reality. With a soldier's discipline, he put away his anger and hurt and lifted the first piece. With a nylon brush, he cleaned away the traces of burnt powder which his sentinel sight could see, along with any old lubricant. For several minutes, his mind was silent as the cleaned each piece. Finally, Jim picked up an aerosol can, and with several quick bursts, he blasted away any remaining gunk. 

/I love you, Blair,/ was the first thought to pop into his mind. /And I don't know what to do. You're the one with the answers,/ he thought, short-changing himself. /You have all the theories and ideas./ With infinitesimally small drops of oil, he lubricated the moving parts of the gun. His skilled fingers took each part and reassembled his weapon. 

/I . . . don't know what I'm going to do without you. You were always there for me. How . . . how are we supposed to be partners now?/ The parts of the gun slipped in place. Once the pistol was whole again, he wiped the surface with a bright yellow cloth. He placed the cleaned gun on the table, then picked up the magazine. His fingers lifted the tiny pawn of a bullet and slid it back into place. He reinserted the magazine, and his hand jerked the slide back. When it returned to the battery, it carried a fresh load into the chamber. 

It was now ready to fire. 

/You could do this, Jim./ 

The voice sounded in his brain like a gong. 

And it drew his attention. 

/Blair's not coming back. He's with Rafe now. And he's happy./ 

/But he loves me./ 

/Yeah, he loves you, and that makes his relationship with Rafe all that more fragile. Look at Rafe. He adores the man. More than you ever did. And do you think he's ever going to trash Blair the next time a sentinel rolls into town? Hell, he barely even knows what a sentinel is. Face it, Blair belongs with Rafe. And you're just getting in the way./ 

Jim closed his eyes in defeat. 

/You want Blair to be happy, don't you?/ 

/Yes./ 

/Then do it. While he's gone. While he's with Rafe. Close it so Blair can move on./ 

Jim stared at the polished gun. His weapon. His pistol that had served him for years. The way it bucked in his hand when he fired it -- how right that felt. How fitting it should be that this pistol, after all this time, should be the one to carry him out. /You could feel it, Jim. Just one last time. And know that this time, it was right./ 

He opened his mouth. With a slow, steady hand, he placed the barrel in his mouth and closed his lips. The queer taste of oil slid across his tongue, as well as the sharp zing of metal. His index finger closed down on the trigger, feeling the smooth curve. 

His fingertip began to itch, and he knew it was right. It was what he wanted. It would free Blair, and he would give his life to free Blair. 

He would give his life. 

Jim closed his eyes, waiting, waiting, waiting for his finger to act on its own. 

Thoughts of Blair's happy future drifted in his imagination. Holiday seasons of mixed Christmas and Hanukkah -- the tinsel and candles -- the gold and draiddles -- spilled forth along with afternoons in the park and glorious celebrations of their union like some spotlit fantasy, while Jim felt the cold corners of his empty loft. Tears fell from his blue eyes as he bit down on his gun, his teeth pressing against the metal. 

Waiting for his finger. His well-trained finger. It knew how to act. 

But it never did. 

With his face dripping, Jim let the gun fall out of his mouth, and the sobbing began. 

* * *

"I can't believe we have to leave tomorrow." Blair's eyes glittered as both he and Rafe leaned against the counter of an outdoor bar. Rafe sipped his margarita before setting it down on the bar. He remained silent, but his handsome face glowed with relaxation, and, Blair was glad to see, security. This vacation had been exactly what he needed to exorcize his apprehensions about Jim. And Blair wasn't sure if it was the warm salt air, the tequila he had been drinking for most of the vacation, or just spending time with Brian that had relaxed him just as much. Both men leaned their backs against the bar, their elbows propped on the counter, watching down the length of the marina pier. The sun was just beginning to set, and they were waiting to board a sunset cruise on a small yacht. The innkeeper at their bed and breakfast had given them the name and schedule. Because the yacht was so small, only a few people could go out at a time, making it more intimate, more romantic. A perfect way to end their vacation. 

They had time to wait. The path to their yacht was blocked because another boat was installing a new mast. The heavy aluminum pole spanned across the wooden pier and they couldn't pass. The gray metal glinted in the sunlight. Neither of them were too concerned with the wait. It gave them time for another cocktail, and time to be together. Rafe comfortably draped his arm around Blair's shoulders. On their first day, they were a little uncomfortable with public expressions of affection, but Key West was so open and tolerant, and so many other male couples were holding hands, that by the second day, they were walking hand and hand down the beach. Rafe joked that he had to hold Blair's hand to keep other men from flirting with him. Blair smirked at that, but he knew Rafe was getting the majority of the winks and comments. 

Blair leaned his head against Rafe's shoulder, and Brian kissed him on the forehead. "Have you ever thought of doing that?" 

"Doing what?" 

"Living on a boat." 

"You thinking about retirement already?" 

He pinched Blair's side. "Thinking about quitting now. Just close up shop and tell Cascade goodbye." 

"Burton would be happier." 

"We'd both be happier. We could even be part-time officers. What kind of crime could this place have?" 

They watched the two men hoisting the metal mast into place. "You think you can do that?" Blair asked. "Looks like a lot of maintenance." 

"And we aren't Home Depot's favorite customers already?" 

"Come on," Blair finished his drink and set it down. "I'm like so ready to see this sunset." 

Rafe downed his margarita. Together they stepped onto the wooden pier and began strolling slowly towards the yacht at the end. A warm, humid breeze drifted across the water, and Blair closed his eyes, relishing the sensations and the call of seagulls. When he opened his eyes, he noticed Brian wasn't standing beside him. He turned, and he saw Rafe had been distracted by the installation of the new mast. He examined the ship, his mind drifting into pleasant fantasies. He glanced back at Blair, and something in his eyes changed. They relaxed around the edges, warm, seductive. "What?" Blair asked. "What are you looking at?" 

"You." He shoved his hands into the pockets of his khaki shorts. "You look so good right now. You look . . . healed. . . and I . . . I was just thinking . . . you are the most handsome, incredible man I've ever known. . . . Right now, with the sun where it is, you look . . . like some kind of angel . . . So I was just thinking about our future, you know? About going home with you tomorrow. Back to _our_ house. . . . but that's not it . . . I don't have to stay here. I don't need to live on a boat like this. I don't need this vacation to keep going. When I get you home, I'm going to love you as much as I do right now, and that's never going to change. . . . I . . . I don't know what I did to deserve all this, but you've made me so happy." 

Blair closed the distance between them. His dark blue eyes were glazed as though drunk with adoration. He placed his hand against Brian's face and lifted himself up to kiss him full on the lips. 

When they parted, Rafe opened his eyes, smiled on his lover, and said, "Thank you." 

"For what?" 

"For loving me." He kissed him again. "I can't begin to tell you how wonderful the past three years have been. It's been like a dream." 

In the midst of their confessions, one of the men on the boat next to them barked, "Fuck!" 

Rafe started laughing. "Oh well, so much for the romantic mood." 

The boat owner saw that his friend was sucking on the side of his thumb. "What did you just do?" 

"I pinched my thumb in the winch." 

Blair grinned, and he whispered, "Ignore them. Kiss me again." Rafe's lips pressed against his, claiming him sweetly. 

"Holy shit! Grab the rope!" 

"What?" 

"Grab the rope!" 

On the pier, neither Blair nor Rafe paid any attention to the interaction. But on the boat next to them, the white nylon rope looped through the hoist zipped past the shipmen. And slowly, gently, the mast began to drop, slicing through the air. Blair kissed Brian harder, pulling his chest tight against him. 

With their eyes closed, they didn't notice the gray metal pole rushing towards them. In seconds, the mast descended, smashing open the back of Rafe's skull with a metallic gong. He was yanked from Blair's arms, slammed onto the pier, dead instantly. Blair stepped back instinctively, his arms open, dazed by the moment. He looked down slowly, in complete shock, and he saw Rafe's body, his knees bent in an unnatural angle, his mouth open, his dead eyes staring up at the sky. A burgundy pool of blood spread across the slats of the pier, dripping into the ocean below. 

* * *

The rain refused to fall for Brian Rafe's funeral. Instead, it hung around like a fog, leaving the tiniest drops on everything with an unholy condensation. Their clear beads left bumps on every surface. On the glossy sides of the black cars the funeral home had loaned. On the aluminum bars of the canvas tent covering the graveside service. On the ridiculously happy flower petals. On the silver badges of all the police officers. On the dark granite gravemarker. 

Detective Brian C. Rafe. 1966 - 2002. 

And the quote Blair had found for him. From an old song. 

"Pal of my heart." 

Blair sat in the front row, staring at the polished wooden coffin. It had been a closed casket funeral. In fact, the last time he had seen Brian's handsome face had been on the pier with the setting sun masking his skin an brilliant rose. Every other contact he had had with his lover since then had been on paper. Even today, on this day with they would plant him like a seed or a bad secret, he would not get to see him. 

Naomi had not released her hold on her son during the entire service until the moment came when she was forced to stand up and read the poem Blair had selected. He had wanted to read it himself. Felt like he needed to, but his throat was too constricted to do it. 

She cleared her throat, then wiped her eyes with her handkerchief. This was going to be as tough for her, maybe more so, than her emotion-repressed son. Her quivering voice began to read. 

"Never more will the wind  
cherish you again,  
never more will the rain. 

"Never more  
shall we find you bright  
in the snow and wind. 

"The snow is melted,  
the snow is gone,  
and you are flown: 

"Like a bird out of our hand,  
like a light out of our heart,  
you are gone." 

Naomi clutched the white handkerchief to her nose and sobbed unashamedly, her shoulders shaking. Standing a few feet away from her, Megan covered her eyes and pressed her face against Jim's shoulder. Jim's arm reached behind her, pulling her to his chest as she began to cry hard. 

Naomi sat down, and as the eulogist began to drone about Rafe's decorated life, Blair's mind slipped into the hazy world of remembrance. Everything since that moment when the sailing mast had come sliding down with the silence of summer wind, Blair had been running on instinct and dread. The ambulance had come and they had removed his body with the foreboding white sheet covering his face. All that night, Blair had sat in the waiting room, hoping, praying, that someone would come to him, some nice doctor in a white gown like some ancient druid and say, "Your friend . . . he's going to be all right. You may see him now." 

That hero never came. 

As the night covered the island, the doctor only said, "The paperwork is complete. His body will be taken to Cascade tomorrow morning by plane." 

And so Rafe was taken from Blair, while Blair had sat there in the hospital, waiting, wanting someone to break this ugly dream in half and pluck them both from it. 

The nights when Brian would hold him were gone. 

No more dinners. 

No more evenings, lit by fire light. 

No more days in the park with Burton yapping and playing, everyone looking at them with envy. 

Like a bird from the hand, he was gone. He was gone. And his days would not return to this poor planet. 

Blair would return home, to their well-appointed townhouse, to their dog, and never again would the Sunday return when the two of them would drive to Home Depot and buy something to improve their house. 

Even his smiles were gone. 

Would Burton understand? Would Blair? 

He closed his eyes tight as tears fell down his face. /Will I ever smell bacon cooking in my house?/ 

The first blast of the twenty-one gun salute jerked him from his sad thoughts. The next blast didn't bother him so much, although Naomi grabbed his arm tighter. 

And then the last one sounded. All seven rifles fired at once. 

There was a cold silence, when Blair felt someone's hand on his shoulder. He looked up. It was Simon. Wide, wet tears slid down the black man's face as he held out the folded triangle of the American flag for Blair to take. Blair's chin quivered. He didn't want it. He didn't want the damn thing and why don't they just burn it? Taking it . . . only made it final. Complete. 

No going back. 

No hope. 

He heard Simon's choked voice say, "Blair?" 

Had Simon ever called him Blair? 

The flag made its way into his hand, as inexplicably as Rafe's death. He held it in his fingers, turning its corners. All around him, the sounds of weeping seeped into his ears like a slow oil. The brush of wool suits. But no talking. No words. No more words. 

And the service was over. Six feet of cold, impassive dirt would separate him from Brian forever. 

At the corner of the tent, Jim felt the tears hot and stinging in his eyes and he clutched Megan. She continued to cry and that gave him the excuse he needed to cling to her like a raft. He could see Rafe's angry eyes on him, and the guilt tugged like a weight. He never wanted the man to die. He wanted him to live. He wanted him to make Blair happy. And now his guide sat shattered like a piece of dropped china, never to be whole again. That was what made him cry. Blair was devastated. He was crying for Blair. Not Rafe. Blair. 

With halting steps, Blair rose from the folding chair, his hand hanging on to his mother's elbow. He passed by Jim, and the sentinel released his hold on Megan. She shifted slightly, then turned to face Blair. "Oh, Sandy," she wept as she fell into his arms. Blair shook, hard, but so far he had held back his emotion, even though everyone could clearly see the pain exquisite on his face. 

She pushed herself away, then hugged Naomi. 

Finally free, Blair eased his way towards Jim. The sentinel embraced his broken guide, and with his lips close to his ear, Jim whispered, "I love you, Blair. It'll be okay. I'm here for you." 

Then Blair answered back, chilled. 

"My heart . . . died with him." 

* * *

Blair lifted the wine glass and he swallowed all of the red liquid, letting its tang stain the back of his throat. He set the empty glass on the mantle piece and he stared down at the cold, fireless hearth. Burton sat beside him, looking up, his dark brown eyes like circles, but Blair didn't see him. He could only peer into the clean hearth -- void of any ashes or hint of use. He and Rafe had cleaned it one Sunday, smudging each other's faces with soot before rolling on the carpet beneath his feet, making love in the cross-marked patch of afternoon sunlight. 

No more. 

"Blair, honey?" his mother's voice sounded as she touched his shoulder. "You okay?" 

"I'm . . . I'm fine, Mother." 

"I'm going to bed now. Promise me you'll wake me if you need me?" 

"I will." 

She kissed him on the cheek, then drifted towards the stairs. On the first step, she looked back at him and wavered, then she ascended, giving him space to grieve. 

No longer was he a young man. He had broken thirty several years ago. He was more adult than she had been at his age, with a rambunctious youth attached to her hip. He had a career . . . and he was now a widower. 

Blair did not see her go. His mind floated from one image to another as he tried to make his mind understand what had happened. Brian was dead. In an instant faster than a butterfly on a flower, he had been blown away and would never come back. Did Blair tell him how much he loved him? Did he say that he would always stay by his side? 

/Brian said he wanted to grow old with me./ 

The vision opened in his imagination. Brian -- bald, pot-bellied, his spine crooked -- but how his face lit up when Blair shuffled into the room. The life passed before him. Years in this house. The decorations. The meals. The jokes and the tussles. The sweet nights in his arms with his lips sucking on his neck. Basketball games and afternoons at the track, watching one of Brian's horses cross the finish line in second place and being so goddamn happy for a small win. The grip of his hand on the small of his back. The arguments when one would bicker about the sting of peroxide as the other dressed a wound from a perp's lucky punch. 

This . . . this life was gone. 

He would not possess it. 

On this night, more than any other night in his life, he needed Brian. He needed him to emerge out of the shadows and hold him, whispering, "It'll be all right, baby. I'm here. I've got you." 

Only he didn't have Blair. No arms held him tight. 

Blair blinked back the tears, and he remained stock-still with his right foot on the hearth and his elbow braced on the mantle. 

They never . . . got to use the garden tub again. Just when the door to their love have been opened even more, when Blair thought the devotion couldn't get any stronger, just when they were ready to step across the threshold and enter something that only poets dreamed of, Brian had been stripped from him. 

"It's . . . not fair." 

His throat constricted and he couldn't speak. For days in Florida, he had imagined what would await them when they came back home. The weekends. The nights. The two of them sure and knowing that they loved each other. How few people ever got that chance. 

Well, he sure didn't. 

No, he was only given a taste of it. A glimpse. And then he was denied entrance like an exile from the holy land. 

On the edge of the mantle, he saw the photograph. Rafe stood behind him with his arms draped around Blair. His grin was infectious. A thread of his hair fell across his brow, and his seductive eyes stared through the glass. Like a sliver of emotion, Blair felt the urge to be with him, to be by his side, to hear his voice and to touch him -- just to talk -- to spend time with him. He would be there, now, in the kitchen, asking him something banal like, "Would you add tarragon or thyme to chicken?" 

But he wasn't there. 

No. Tonight, Brian was underground. He was stuffed in a box, abandoned, with a mound of dirt heaped on him. 

Like a slingshot, Blair's hand snapped in front of him, cupped the bronze statue of Perseus, and with a strangled shout, he dragged it and all the pretty objects across the mantle. "It's not fair!!" His face burned red and he grabbed the fireplace tools, flinging them across the room. Burton scrambled out of the way, his tail between his legs as he darted up the stairs. "It's not fair! God damn you!" He grabbed the lamp and flung it against the wall. "We didn't do anything! We just loved each other! Why?! Why?!" 

He grabbed the edge of the end table and tipped it over, spilling glass and magazines. "I don't want you to go! I don't want you to go!" 

In an instant, Naomi ran down the stairs, her cotton nightgown tangling around her legs. "Blair! Blair, stop it!" 

Blair tried to push the sofa over, but its bulk carried him with it. Falling across its angles, he landed on the carpet and rolled into a ball. Naomi grabbed him hard and pulled him to her chest. "Blair. Baby, don't." 

"This can't be happening!" 

Naomi clutched him to her chest. "Blair, it's okay. Let it out." 

"This can't be happening." 

"Cry, baby, cry. Get it out." 

"Please, Momma," his voice broke like a child's, "please, make it go away." 

Every muscle in Naomi's chest seized, and she rocked him back and forth. 

* * *

The sentinel opened his fifth beer, and it didn't help. It still felt like a hard, dry, angular brick had been lodged in his chest. He twisted the cap, his numb skin no longer feeling the bite of the metal ridges, and he set the cold glass rim to his lips. The liquid no longer had a taste. It was just cold. And he drank, hard, swallowing more and more of it, wondering if he should just open up his throat and let it fall so that he could start on the sixth beer. He had bought a twelve pack, and he had a sinking suspicion he should have bought the vodka instead. His stomach was going to feel full a lot sooner than his body would reach the alcoholic stupor he needed to pass out. 

Everything in his world had ended. Gone. 

Before Rafe and Blair had flown to Key West, he had convinced himself he had lost all hope, but even he knew that there was always a random chance that something unexpected would happen -- like Rafe would run away with someone, or he would do something as stupid and thoughtless as Jim had done, like kick him out for some inexplicable reason. Things like that could happen. 

But not this. Not death. 

Now Blair was gone. He would never be his. Blair would drape himself in Rafe's undying love and devotion and remain a haunted widower. 

And . . . Jim swallowed hard . . . every time Blair would think of Jim, he would see him as the man who tried to take him away from Rafe's side. 

Blair hadn't returned to the station so Jim could see him. One morning, Jim had walked in and Simon had told him. Blair had resigned. His gun and his badge remained on Simon's desk like the bloodless remains of an autopsy no one wanted to touch. 

For a week after the funeral, he hadn't return Jim's calls. He wanted to drive over there, but he was too scared. Too scared of what happened the last time he was at their house. 

Suddenly the bottle was empty and in a rage Jim shouted, flinging the bottle across the room. It struck the metal edge of the stairs and burst like a shriek. Jim slumped to the floor, and as he felt the emotions bubble up to the surface, he slammed his head back against the wooden cabinet beneath the sink. Again and again he smacked his skull against the unyielding surface, but the alcohol dulled the pain. 

No pain. No sensory perception. 

Just the pure immaterial depth inside his chest that drew all the warmth out of his body. The sensation that seemed impervious to Jim's ruthless drunk. 

For how long he had heard the knock on the door, he wasn't sure. 

Finally, he mumbled, "Yeah, yeah, what is it?" He stumbled towards the door, holding on to the edge of the doorframe. He didn't bother to look out the peephole. 

Behind the door stood Blair Sandburg. 

"Blair?" 

"Jim. . . I'm sorry I'm coming by so late." 

"No. S'okay. Wanna come in?" He swayed on his feet. 

"No. This won't take long. I . . . I wanted to ask a favor." 

"Yeah. I guess." 

Blair forced a leash into his hand, and for the first time, Jim noticed that his young dog was standing in the hallway with him. As he took the leash, Burton slipped inside, and Jim noticed it. The dog's ears were bent back in submission, as though he had been beaten, but he knew neither Blair nor Rafe would do such a thing. His tail dragged the hardwood floor, and he snuck behind Jim's legs, whining like a puppy. 

"Will you look after Burton for me? Until I get back?" 

"Where . . . where are you going?" 

"I haven't decided yet. Someplace, I guess. I was . . . thinking about Rwanda." 

"Rw - - rwanda?" 

"Will you keep him, Jim? Please?" 

"Yeah. I guess. Will you be coming back?" 

Blair eased his way towards the elevator, his hands in his pockets and his eyes downcast. "I . . . I don't know." The elevator closed on him for the last time. 

Burton's whine's drew Jim's attention, and he slowly shut the door. When he threw the deadbolt, Burton pitched back his head and howled, the hurt and confusion and sense of abandonment painting the loft with cold echoes.. 

And every part of Jim's heart crumbled in his chest and fell as he collapsed against the door, his face twisting into a wet, messy cry. 

* * *

September, 2003 

Dry sunny days marked the transition from summer to autumn in the Pacific Northwest. Temperatures were usually high. The haze lifted and huge mountains appeared in the landscape where formless fog normally obscured the view. On this Saturday afternoon, the Major Crimes department met in Centennial Park overlooking the sound and the city skyline. A few clouds drifted across a rich blue sky. Detectives began arriving a little before noon to help Simon set up their rented grill. This year, everyone seemed a little anxious. Last year's picnic had been marred by Rafe's recent death and Sandburg's withdrawal. And all during last year's outing, Simon kept expecting to hear Sandburg's constant comments about red meat and saturated fat all in the same breath with "and flip that burger there in the corner -- it's like getting so burned." 

But an entire year had passed. Most detectives hoped they would enjoy this year's picnic much more. Yet, at the same time, they wondered if they should feel guilty for having moved on without their brothers in arms. 

Spirits were high, though. Several tough cases had been resolved that week, and the sunny weather averted dour thoughts. 

Taggart elbowed Simon in the small of his back. "Hey, Captain, how come you always get to be the grill chef?" 

"Perks. It's my party." Simon brandished his metal spatula like a weapon. 

Brown grinned and added, "I think he looks cute in an apron." 

Simon ignored the remark and flipped several patties, one right after another. 

Slowly, with sly steps, Dan approached, his hot dog in his hand. "Captain?" 

"Whut?" Simon whoofed in a cartoon voice. 

"I'm afraid I'll have to do an autopsy on this burn victim to identify him." 

"That's fine," Simon said, ignoring the laughter. "You just enjoy that hog dog. It'll be your last." 

As if to join the laughter, a raucous train of barks circled the group as Burton darted between their legs. Simon raised his arms in the air as Burton continued to run rings around him, his canine-smile grinning. "You'll wait your turn like everyone else," Simon warned, and Burton sat on his back legs and barked once. "Where's your partner?" 

Burton quickly crossed the park, then fell in step with Jim as he topped the hill. Simon could see Jim saying something to him, and hear Burton's responding barks. He could only shake his head. Once Jim was in comfortable shouting distance, Simon called out, "Ellison!" 

"Yes sir?" 

Simon pointed to Burton's police-issue bandana around the dog's neck. "It's Burton's day off. Why did you bring him here in his uniform?" 

"Because it's his favorite bandana, sir. He won't wear anything else." 

"Jeez, Jim, this is just getting too damn weird." 

Jim held out his hands, a quizzical look on his face. "What, sir?" 

When Jim had suggested it, Simon had that same look on his face. Then that expression had turned quickly to abject disbelief. "I don't have time for this," he had said. But Jim had pressed the issue. And why? Because he had discovered that that dog of his could break him out of a zone in seconds. Something about his bark. Something about the way it sounded. Simon had just waved his hand back and forth, hoping the conversation would go away. "Whatever, Ellison." And just as Jim was walking out, he had shouted, "Ellison!" 

"Yes sir?" 

"The dog goes through the K-9 corps training." 

"He does what, sir?" 

"You heard me. Jeez, Ellison, what is it about you? Every damn partner you bring in here, you expect to exempt them from police training? You want the dog for a partner, you put him through training." 

Six months later, he saw that self-same mongrel of Blair's and Rafe's tackle a suspect and bring him down, kicking his gun away with his hind leg while he faced the culprit down with a snarl. It was as if he had watched a scene from a movie. And at the same time, later, Simon had felt something in his heart that he hadn't felt in a long time. An almost fatherly pride. Then he had remembered the last time he had felt that \-- when Blair Sandburg, neo-hippie witch doctor punk -- had taken down a perp with an almost elegant form and growled, "Freeze! Cascade PD!" 

The day he saw Burton's first "arrest," Simon returned to his office. 

He closed his door. 

And he allowed his eyes to grow wet as he remembered two of his most favorite detectives. 

Burton approached Simon bravely, barked once, then pawed at his leg gently. 

"What now?" 

The dog circled his legs like a cat. 

"I think he wants his burger raw, sir," Jim answered. 

"No. None of my men are eating anything that isn't well done. End of discussion. I'm not about to have any of you calling in sick the next day because of salmonella. Not from my grill." Then he looked down at Burton. "And that goes for you, too." 

Henri scratched behind Burton's ears. "Sorry, Dogboy. That means you gotta eat yours burnt like the rest of us." 

Burton growled a short whine as he scampered away from the grill, then climbed onto the bench beside Megan. She hugged him before she went back to arranging lettuce, onions, tomatoes and other condiments. 

"Hey," Simon started, "he's not going to be sitting at the table, is he?" 

"You should have seen him collar Conciquos, yesterday, Captain," Taggart said. "Any animal that can bring down a man like that can sit at my table any time." 

Simon shook his head. "Every one of you. Every single one of you has lost it. Just lost it." He pointed his spatula. "That -- that is a dog." 

Then Jim looked him straight in the eye and said, "He's Blair's dog, sir." Jim's tone of voice stated it -- this discussion was at an end. 

Without a change of expression, Simon glanced down at the grill and flipped the meat. Inside, though, he was smirking. /So damn easy. It's so damn easy to lead these bozo's around by the nose./ He looked one last time at Burton, at the way he peered up at him with round eyes, begging for his approval. /Jeez, even Blair did that. It's just uncanny, is what it is./ 

* * *

The other detectives were packing up the last of the picnic. They had hosted another precinct, mainly to have enough people to play softball. The other detectives won, but not by much. Mostly, the day had been about drinking beer, being good sports, and trying to recall a time when their prize second basemen, Brian Rafe, had guaranteed them easy wins. The sun was setting, and Simon scanned the park, looking for Jim. 

Eventually, he spotted him -- almost two hundred yards away -- at the crest of a hill, his back against a tree, watching the sun set behind the Olympics. Burton lay there with him, his head in Jim's lap, with Jim's hand on his blond shoulders. 

When Simon climbed the hill and sat down next to his friend, neither said anything. Finally, Simon had to break the silence. "So . . . how are you?" 

"I hold together, sir." 

The captain frowned. "I thought as much. . . . been a tough year." 

"It's been hell, sir." 

"Have you heard from Sandburg?" 

"No." 

"Anybody else?" 

"No. Connor's the only one to hear from him." 

"You mean the fax?" 

"Yeah." 

Six months ago, Connor had called the man Blair had listed as his contact, a Professor Frank O'Hara at Gonzaga University. She wanted him to ask Blair if it would be okay if she moved into the townhouse. All she received was a fax from him, with one simple word. "Yes." That same day, Megan socked a murder suspect so hard she dislocated his jaw, all her anger, frustration and depression channeled into one vicious punch. 

"Any idea where he is?" 

"According to this O'Hara person, he's holed up in Peru of all places." It bothered Jim to think of it. Peru was his green place of hell. Was Blair there to punish himself with constant thoughts of Jim? Had he hurt his guide that much? 

"What do you think's happening?" Simon asked. 

"I think he's letting himself die, sir." Burton let out a high-pitched whine, and Jim stroked his fur. "Or, he's slipping into insanity." With tight eyes, Jim lifted his head to stare into the setting sun. 

"And ideas what to do?" 

"None, sir." Jim said it with such desperation, that Simon instantly knew that it had become the sentinel's unsuccessful obsession. 

* * *

April, 2004 

Without thinking, Blair brushed the flies from his face, and as he did, he bumped his nose with the side of his hand. The contact jarred him for a moment. Kneeling there in front of the murky river, he stopped to think about it. He couldn't recall the last time he had noticed the flies. But they had been there all along, always buzzing around his eyes and getting tangled in his hair. Now it was almost instinct to just let the body move his hands. He fell back against the mud -- his clothes were so worn and nasty that it didn't matter, and something about this non-concern for vanity made him comfortable here in the jungle. One less thing to worry about. His arms rested on the crest of his knees, and he stared down at the soil and the soft line between dirt and water. He couldn't recall the last time he noticed flies. He couldn't recall the last time he wondered what was happening in the "civilized" world. Then he took a deep breath -- there was only thing that he was conscious of. 

/Am I ever going to get over him?/ He closed his eyes, and he remembered lying on their sofa in their warm, inviting townhouse, the fire crackling, Burton lying at their feet . . . with Rafe snoozing on Blair's chest. /I miss . . . I miss touching his hair./ 

Blair closed his eyes, and this time, he felt the annoying whispers of fly feet on his hands. He no longer cried. That had stopped six months after Brian had died. But the pain hadn't gone away -- just the physical response -- as if his body had said enough but his heart kept sobbing. Blair touched his breast. It actually, physically, hurt. He could trace the outline of the discomfort in an oval pattern down the center of his chest. Looking up at the wide brown river in front of him, he watched as the mid-morning sun rose above the towering trees. What token coolness the jungle allowed at night would be burned off very quickly, and the blanket of equatorial heat and humidity would smother him again as it had every day for two years. 

He would have given anything for just one more night in their comfortable home with Rafe holding him safely until he drifted off to sleep. 

He tried to take his mind off Rafe when a small child approached him. The little boy, wearing a tight loin cloth, reached down for a stick and clumsily tossed it into the river, giggling. Blair focused on the ripples, soft waves that circled out into nothingness. A few minutes passed before he noticed the boy draw in a frightened breath, stiffen, then bolt from the riverbank. 

Casually, Blair glanced over his shoulder. Then he froze, his dark blue eyes saucer-wide. 

Slowly, he rose to his feet. 

In front of him stood a dreamlike image from so many years ago, so many that he felt the surreal shock creep through his skin. The short brown hair, wrapped in a grimy gray strip of cloth. The tight, sweat-drenched tee-shirt curved by muscle. The worn camoflauge pants. The black army boots. The sharp machete gleaming in his belt. And there, those ice-blue eyes in that chiseled face, glinting hard in the sun, but tempered slightly with the barest hint of a smile. He stood with his strong legs slightly apart, firm arms crossed on his chest, the morning sun yellow against his skin. Blair's heart began to race. 

"Jim? What . . . what are you doing here?" 

The sentinel shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly. "Just wanted to see how you were." 

"How I am? You came all this way to see how I am?" 

"Yes. Is that wrong?" 

Blair honestly didn't have a response to that. He stepped away from the river, coming closer to Jim. For a moment, he stood in front of him, not moving. 

"Chief, can I . . . give my best friend a hug?" Blair smiled slightly, and he wrapped his hands around Jim's waist, sighing barely as he felt Jim's strong embrace fold around him. It had been a long time since he had let another human being touch him like that. 

Jim didn't push his luck, and he withdrew from Blair after a brief moment. He held Blair back at arm's length, then touched the dark beard on the anthropologist's face. "Almost didn't recognize you with this." 

Blair shrugged his shoulders. "One less thing to do in the morning." 

Jim pulled his hands to his sides. "Looks nice. Glad to see the hair's back." 

Reaching behind him, Blair touched his ponytail. Strands of hair hung down his face. He had forgotten the hospital had shaved his head not long before . . . Brian had died. Without saying anything, he moved around Jim and began to walk back into the village. Rather than live with the tribes, Blair had chosen to remain in the trading post, recording and studying the interaction between merchants and tribesmen. Jim followed him, watching his guide move about the tiny village. He seemed strange, almost, the way he avoided eye contact and kept quiet. So unlike the man he remembered in Cascade. That made him frown somewhat as Jim felt something akin to guilt for Rafe's death and all this change in Blair, even though he knew he wasn't responsible. 

Eventually, Blair stopped in front of a tiny wooden cottage, painted grayish-white. A wide porch ran completely around the building, and the tin roof had rusted a dark brownish-red. Without stepping up on the porch, Blair turned and looked at Jim. "This is where I live." 

"You've got better accommodations than I had." 

"I don't really need to live with the tribes. I'm just working on how they interact with the townspeople." 

"How's that going?" 

Blair sat down the steps leading up to the porch. "I finished the dissertation." 

Jim joined him, one step lower. "What are you going to do with it?" 

"I've already submitted it to Gonzaga." Jim arched his eyebrows, unsure how to ask the next question. Blair could see the expression and he continued. "I still have a lot of friends in the field. They couldn't understand why I . . . did what I did . . with your dissertation. I told Frank that I had to do it . . . because of you. To protect you. He understood. Told me it was the most noble thing he had ever heard. Yeah, well, whatever. Anyway, he's the head of the department at Gonzaga, so he got me in." 

"So what happens next?" 

"The review board passed it. I just need to give an oral defense." 

"When did you finish?" 

"Three months ago." 

"So . . . when are you going back?" 

Blair gave him a tight frown, standing to reach the porch. "I'm . . . not." He stepped inside the cottage, leaving the door open for Jim. The sentinel crossed the threshold and looked around. The cottage had only two small rooms. To the left, a small kitchen area with a make-shift table -- Jim noticed a stack of old books and a sheaf of papers. As he stood there, he could feel his heart growing warm, remembering those early years when Blair would spread out his jumbled studies on their wooden table. He glanced around and saw Blair sitting on the edge of a thin cot, his elbows resting on his knees and his face cast downward. Over his shoulder, Jim noticed the crate he used for a bedside table, and on it a large wooden picture frame with Rafe's warm smile beaming from it. 

Seeing Brian's picture made his heart drop slightly. He had hoped that Blair had come here to heal, and he was now afraid that his guide had placed himself in an environment where Rafe's memory was his only connection with the outside world. Taking a deep breath, Jim sat on his heels in front of Blair and began the speech he had been practicing for the three days it had taken him to reach the village. "Blair, I . . . want you to know something. I didn't come here to try and win you back. After . . . what happened, well, I just don't think I would feel comfortable with that. The last thing I'd ever want to do is to hurt you. But, I just started feeling something, almost like I had to be here. That's all. I'm just here to make sure everything's okay and . . . to see you . . . spend some time together . . . like we used to." With his index finger, Jim lifted Blair's chin to make eye contact. "I miss my best friend . . ." 

That forced a short laugh from the quiet man. 

"You don't mind, do you? Can I . . . stay?" 

Eying him for a moment, Blair finally said, "You are the last man I ever expected to see again." 

"Is that a good thing or a bad thing?" 

Smiling finally, Blair patted him on the shoulder. "No, no, you're okay. Just . . . an unexpected surprise, that's all." 

"Okay." Jim stood up again. "You don't mind if I crash on your floor, do you?" 

"That's fine. It's not much of a floor." 

"Beats the dirt I slept on the last time I was here." Jim stretched in the small room, and as he did, Blair admired his broad shoulders and slim waist. "Now, I'm going to go out and get a feel for this place. I promise I'm not going to get in your hair while I'm here." Jim didn't wait for a reply as he strolled out of Blair's small cottage, leaving the man to wonder if he really saw Jim after all. 

* * *

Blair didn't see his sentinel for the rest of the day. As he stumbled around the village, hoping that time would move around him -- the same prayer he sent up to the gods every day now that his dissertation was finished and there was nothing left to distract him from his pain -- he wondered, /Did that really happen? Did I really see Jim?/ 

For two years now, in this jungle of heat and flying bugs, one war hammered his brain and soul. He loved Brian. The man had been so fucking good to him. A knight in shining armor. He had sacrificed his entire life, his entire being, to making Blair happy. And truth was -- Blair was happy. Rafe had succeeded. But in an area he didn't want a man to succeed in. He had made him forget and get over the one man he hoped he would never get over. Jim. All those years ago, he only dated the man with the express purpose of making Jim jealous. Maybe a jealous Ellison would finally snap him out of that stoic shell and react. 

But that never happened. 

And instead his heart opened up to that stylish detective with the crisp suits and the blistering smile. 

They bought a house together. They had a dog. It was a dream come true. It was everything he had ever wanted. And underneath all of that was a foundation of sand. It was an everything-he-ever-wanted but not with the beautiful man he wanted. 

Despite all of Rafe's love and devotion, he could never totally wipe out Jim's presence in his heart, and that was his undoing. An undoing that Blair felt so powerfully a part of. /I helped kill him. I killed his hope and his heart and in his last dying days he fought so hard to hold onto something he had no claim to./ 

And this guilt had driven him into the jungle. He wanted to die here. But it never happened. Even after contracting a brutal case of malaria, he didn't die. /The gods don't want me. They don't want this blackened heart. I died in a fountain and they didn't want me. I died on an operating table twice and they didn't want me. I almost died in some outpost hospital and they didn't want me./ He wrote his dissertation -- angry at the world and so distant from these people that he never liked them. Once, he ventured into the jungles to meet the Chopec, but when they had learned that he had abandoned his sentinel even after giving his word to their beloved Incacha, they spurned him. Not to his face, not bluntly, but with their ever judging eyes. He never returned to their small village, but he carried the scar of their unspoken judgments in his heart, along with his own, along with Rafe's, along with the unhappy gods of death. 

The sun began to set, and he sat on his porch for a while. During the entire day, Jim never returned. /So much for visions./ He stood up, then slipped inside like a guilty thief. 

For all these years in the jungles, in the back of his mind, where thoughts and hopes are felt but not expressed, he had one irrational desire. 

That Jim would show up in his swagger and power and rescue him from this green-dappled pain. 

Seeing him this morning, highlighted by the rising sun, Blair felt transported. 

Now, lighting candles in his small room in the jungle, Blair considered the possibility that madness had finally come to his door. His guilt and pain and remorse and general anger at the way fate had played hard with him had finally opened the doors of his subconscious and let his dreams mimic reality. With listless energy, he collapsed on his cot. He didn't bother to drape the mosquito netting around him. /Let them come. Let them spread their tiny checkered tablecloths and eat me like a banquet. Maybe they'll leave me with sleeping sickness this time and I can get some relief, at least./ Taking a deep breath, Blair went one step further. /Why am I even bothering? I came out here to heal and I'm not healing. Rafe's never coming back and now Jim's haunting me. Why? Why haven't I just ended this?/ 

The decision seemed so rational. So right. Of course. He would kill himself. He would just end this charade. Maybe the gods didn't want to take his life, but they would have to accept it if he blew his brains out. Like leaving a swaddled infant on their underworld doorstep. Closing his eyes, he imagined the sweet release. The silence. The final numbness in his chest. Not having to worry about all the demons in his soul. To just quit. To just stop. 

A sudden rap on his door jerked him out of the cot. "Wh-wh-what?!" 

The door opened, and he was there again, peering around the wooden edge. "It's just me. Didn't want to scare you." 

"Jim?" 

He closed the door behind him, and Blair drank in his image all over again -- the camoflauge pants, the black boots, the tight tee-shirt, the bandana. The sweat glistening off his skin. His musky scent. And those sweet, gentle blue eyes glittering over his chiseled features. 

"Who'd you think it would be?" 

"I . . . I don't know." Then Blair noticed the large fish in his hand, his fingers locked around the lower lip of the fish's angular jaw. "What is that?" 

"Dinner." Jim slapped the wet fish on the tiny counter in Blair's rugged kitchen. "Unless . . . have you eaten already?" 

"No. Not . . . not really." 

"Were you planning to?" Jim asked, and Blair remembered that tactic. One last innocent question before Ellison launched into his blessed protector lecturing. 

"I . . . guess." 

"Good. This will be it, then." 

"Where'd you get that?" 

"I caught it." 

"You caught it?" 

Jim smiled. "Not bad for an old man." 

"You're not an old man." 

"Blair, I'm pushing 45." 

He knew Jim was joking about the old comment, but his age shocked him. /Forty-five? He's forty-five?/ Then he realized. /Blair, you're thirty-six./ 

"You look like that surprises you." 

"I . . . guess it does. I was just realizing how old I was. Guess being out here in the jungle, time just sorta stands still." /Very still./ Looking back at Jim, he began to notice the changes in his face -- crows feet, deep lines around his mouth, furrows across his brow. Jim had yet to strip off his bandana from his head, and Blair hadn't seen the extent of his hair loss. 

"Well, it's not standing still in Cascade, let me tell you." Jim rummaged around Blair's kitchen. "Have you got a knife?" 

Blair handed him a small wooden box. "It's in here." Jim pulled back the lid, brushed his hand across the sparse utensils and found one small knife. He held it up to the candlelight, his sentinel vision heightened before he ran his thumb across the edge. 

"That'll do for now." 

"What are you going to do with it?" 

He pointed to the small burner. "Have you got any kerosene?" 

"Yes." Truth was, Blair rarely cooked. He usually ate with the missionaries. Their conversation was so dull that he could drown it out and eat practically alone without having to fix a meal. 

Jim continued to scale the fish. "Things have changed in Cascade." 

"Have they? How?" 

"Daryl passed the bar. He's working for the DA now." 

"I bet Simon's proud." 

"Simon just wants to retire. He's got another ten years to go, but he wants it bad. And Connor, she was called back to Australia. She didn't go, though. Kinda surprised us all and applied for citizenship. She's got a work visa for now while her application goes through. Simon's trying to call in favors to push it through." 

"Hmm." Blair turned his back on Jim, staring at the candle on his desk. 

"Burton misses you, too." 

"Burton? Who's taking care of him right now?" 

"Connor. She's got him while I'm gone." 

"So you kept him?" 

"Well, yeah. Of course I kept him." Jim slid the knife into the fish's gut. "He's your dog. Fact is, I almost thought of bringing him. He . . . never leaves my side." 

It warmed Blair's heart to think of Jim caring for Burton so lovingly. "Really?" 

"Yeah. I found out that his bark breaks me out of a zone." Jim pointed the knife at Blair. "Better than you, I might add." 

"You take him to work?" Blair asked with a slight hint of anger. 

"Well, yeah. He's trained now. He's in the K-9 corp." 

"You made Burton a police dog?!" 

"I did it to you, didn't I?" Jim asked with a dead panned voice. Not waiting for Blair's response, he picked up a jug of water and washed the flesh clean. "Now, a pan." He found Blair's single skillet and he placed it on the burner. "We'll have fried fish in a minute. Or, at least, cooked fish." 

* * *

Concluded in part three.

Link to text version of part three:


	3. Chapter 3

This story has been split into three parts for easier loading.

## No More

by Kadru

Author's webpage: <http://www.mindspring.com/~kadru/index.html>

Author's notes and disclaimer found in part one. 

* * *

No More - part three 

The night passed quickly, Jim speaking to him as though the years had never passed -- that they were still in their loft in Cascade on a wet winter night -- Jim an unsure, cagey sentinel, Blair an eager grad student. Jim's tone of voice was dry, witty, pleasant, nonchalant. His body language was typically reserved but comfortable. He was just Jim -- the Jim of his good memories -- and that made Blair suspect his own madness all over again. 

Jim, though, noticed that Blair was not reacting in the same way as he remembered. He still wouldn't make eye contact with him. The dark circles under his eyes looked permanent. And even though his hair had grown back thick and luxuriant again, it was now speckled heavily with gray, as was his beard. He didn't joke. Sure, he would smile at Jim's wisecracks, but he never responded in kind. His voice seemed so tired, so defeated. And there, on his third finger, was his gold ring, still, marking Rafe's territory. Closing his eyes, Jim admitted that today was probably too much of a shock to his system. He picked himself up off the floor and reached for a small bag he had dropped beside the door. 

"What are you doing?" Blair asked as he watched him pulling out small green fruit. 

"Smear this on your skin. Keeps the mosquitos off." With his machete, he cut the fruit in half and handed it to Blair. Blair sniffed it, then recoiled. "Ugh, this stuff's awful." 

Jim dropped his arms. "You mean I've finally found something natural that Blair Sandburg can't stand?" 

Blair set the fruit down on the floor. "I've got some insect repellant, thank you." 

But Jim knew that. He had smelled the artificial citronella on his skin this morning, and he had specifically gone out into the jungle to track down the vines Incacha had shown him so many years ago. He just knew that Blair would react positively to something natural which would keep the mosquitos away, and cease using some product of the industrial complex built on destroying the world's resources while exploiting their workers. 

Only this Blair would have none of it. 

"I think I'll go outside, take care of business before we go to bed," Jim said as he bolted from the cottage. Once outside, he dropped down on the porch and held his head in his hands. /Damn. I . . . had no idea he was this bad off./ Taking deep breaths to calm himself, as Blair had taught him six years ago, Jim repressed the urgent desires that pulled at him. What he wanted to do, even when he boarded the plane in Cascade, was to sweep Blair back to his heart, to overwhelm him with affection and love and kiss him, to finally kiss him, after waiting for all these years, after never looking at another man or woman. And now, witnessing the extent of Blair's withdrawal, Jim's blessed protector instincts burned inside him. 

"No," he whispered to the unobscured jungle stars, "I have to go slow. I can't rush this." 

* * *

Deep in the heart of the jungle, five miles from the trading village, Jim stopped. A light rain had begun after noon, and now it was raining steadily. He didn't mind the rain so much, but something else nagged at his conscience. The day before, Jim had told Blair he would be going out to find the Chopec. "Do you want to go with me?" 

"No." 

"Why not." 

Then Blair had told him of his earlier visit the year before, and how they didn't react well to him showing up without his sentinel. He wasn't going back and that was final. Jim just shrugged his shoulders. He came to see Blair, but he wasn't going to pass up the opportunity to see the Chopec while he was here. That morning, he had stepped into the jungle and let it suck him back in. The initial sensations unnerved him a little. He remembered the helocopter crash, and he remembered burying his friends. Then he recalled meeting the Chopec and convincing them to help him hold a strategic pass. The isolation had been hard, but he also knew that he wanted it -- he felt the weight of his comrades death yoked around his soul, and he felt like this green torture was too apt. 

Realizing this gave him a greater understanding of Blair's need to be here. This place was a living purgatory -- a land made work out the sins from the heart. 

But something kept tugging at him, and he couldn't name the fear. He would continue to advance, moving closer and closer to the Chopec, when he sensed something was dangerously wrong. 

Two hours later, and in mid-step, Jim turned completely around and hurried back to the trading post. 

He didn't know what. He didn't even know how he knew. But something was wrong. Something was extremely wrong. 

* * *

The rain poured by the time Jim got back to the trading village. No wind stirred the trees, and the rain fell in straight lines, spattering the mud onto Jim's boots and pants. He didn't seem to notice. Coming back into the jungle after so many years, he was surprised to find how quickly he adjusted to old habits. But old feelings didn't go away so easily. By now, the weird twinge in his stomach that he had felt in the jungle had transformed into a raging panic. The setting sun and the coming night only added to his fears. His heart raced and his mind flashed frightening images. After he passed the tiny police cottage, Jim couldn't hold back his urges any longer and he broke into a run, the entire time praying that his unexplainable fears would reveal themselves to be simple paranoia. Right now, he would gladly accept red-faced shame and embarrassment. 

He took the steps in front of Blair's cottage two at a time, and he didn't bother to knock on the door. Jim threw it open, and his heart dropped. 

Blair sat crosslegged on the floor, his left leg covered in the blood which streamed from his arm. Not looking up, so intent and focused on his second cut, Blair ignored the sound of Jim behind him. As hard as he tried, he couldn't break the skin on his right arm -- the wound on his left had crippled his fingers. In desperation, he cried as he ran the blade down his forearm again and again. 

Jim snatched the knife from his hands and threw it into the corner. He knew he shouldn't say the words that flooded into his mind -- the screams and shouts of "what do you think you're doing?" Now was not the time to shame his friend. He whipped his bandana from his head, draped it over Blair's left wrist and quickly twisted it into a tourniquet. 

The anthropologist tried hard to jerk his wounded hand free of Jim's grip. "Let me go. Let me go. Let me go," he begged with a sobbing voice. "Just leave me alone. Just leave me alone." 

"No, baby," Jim said softly, his voice taking lover-tones. "Not this time." He pulled Blair to his feet, but Blair continued to fight him. 

"Stop it. Just go away. I can't take this any more. I just . . . I can't." His feet slipped on the slick, bloodied floor, and Jim caught him quickly. "I want to die," Blair cried, "I just want to die." 

"I know, you do, baby. I know. I'm not saying you don't. But don't . . . please . . . I'm begging you." 

"I can't, Jim. Don't ask me." 

He shook Blair's shoulders. "I'm asking you to live, Chief. I'm asking you to stay on this planet with me. Please, Blair. Please. I want you to live." 

Blair couldn't speak. The blood loss was making him dizzy, and he sagged against Jim's chest, crying. Jim held him close, waiting for the emotions to take their course. "Let it all out, baby. Get it out so you can heal." 

"I don't want to heal." 

"Yes you do." 

"No! I don't deserve to be happy any more." 

"Blair--" 

"Not after Rafe. Not after you." 

"Brian Rafe would not want you to die alone in the jungle. He would not want you to hurt so damn bad that you gave up on life. I know he wouldn't Blair. I know that. He loved you with all of his heart. He would have done anything for you. He would have sacrificed his heart for you. But what he wouldn't do is ask you to die for him. I know that, and you know that." 

"But I can't . . . I can't be happy without him." 

Jim closed his eyes and swayed slightly, the words piercing his heart. He shook his head slightly, trying to regain his composure. "No. No, Blair. That . . . that isn't true. Men and women have always lost their lovers. Always. Somebody always buries the other. That's just the way life works. And they live on. You're no different. You have to live on." 

With his forehead resting on the center of Jim's chest, Blair trembled. "It's so hard." 

"I know it is. I know. And Blair," he ran his hands across Blair's back. "No one's asking you to love again. No one. You can remain true to Rafe for as long as you want. And I want you to know, that if that is your decision, I'll stand by you. I'll support you. I didn't come to this jungle to win you back." He pushed Blair apart from him so that they could look into each other's eyes. "I came back to get _you_ back. The old Blair." 

"The old Blair's dead." 

"No he's not. He's just hurt. That's all. Years ago, I thought I was losing my mind. You got it back for me. So I came here . . . to return the favor." 

Blair's eyelids fluttered, and Jim looked down at his wound. Then he noticed it. The knot on the tourniquet had slipped, and threads of blood hung from Blair's five fingers, streaming to the floor. Blair fainted, and Jim scooped him up in his arms. In an instant, he maneuvered the man through the doorway and out into the rain again. His first impulse was to rush to the police cabin, but then he suddenly feared that they might press charges against Blair for his attempted suicide. Jim dashed towards the evangelical mission instead. 

With his fist, Jim pounded on the door. In moments, a young man appeared, his long blond hair tied by a ponytail, his round-rimmed glasses dusty and scratched. "Yes?" 

"My friend . . . he cut himself. Do you have a first aid kit?" 

"Yes. Yes we do." He stood back from the doorway so Jim could pass. "It's this way. In this room, here." As Jim followed him, he noticed the back room looked almost like a hospital, with gauze and bandages and boxes of needles. 

"What is this?" 

"Oh, one of our sisters is a trained nurse. She gives out free immunizations." 

Jim laid Blair out on their small bed. "Could you get her for me, please?" 

The missionary caught a glimpse of Blair's bleeding wound, and with anxious eyes, he traced the trail of blood through the cabin and out into the rain. "Oh no." 

"Please? Hurry?" 

The missionary ran from the cabin. Not willing to wait, Jim tightened the tourniquet to stop the bleeding again, then he rummaged through the small room, looking for a needle and any sort of surgical thread. He found something that would do, and he gripped Blair's arm, firmly, turning it into the dim light. Taking a deep breath, he dialed up his vision. He wiped Blair's arm as best he could, then he threaded the curved needle. He leaned in close to begin stitching, when he felt someone pull his hand back. 

"No," a woman's voice said. "Not that one. Let me help." Jim looked up to see the nurse. She seemed to be Blair's age, her straight brown hair pinned behind her neck. With quick, professional motions, she grabbed a bottle of hydrogen peroxide and a cloth. "We need to clean the wound, first." 

"But he's bleeding. We need to stop the blood flow first." 

"This has to be done quickly. We won't have time to go back in and kill off any infections. Hold his hand." Jim did as she said. She sloppily soaked the cloth in peroxide, then rubbed it down Blair's arm. Jim saw the flesh bubble up, and Blair moaned as he tried to jerk his arm away. 

"Hold on, Chief. I know it hurts, but hold on." 

After she cleaned the wound, she huffed a strand of hair from her face with a puff of air. "Can you hand me that box there?" Jim reached back and brought the box to the bed. "We need a thicker thread to make sure the stitch holds." The sentinel watched her as the nurse deftly threaded the needle. She clamped the wound together. "Hold him like this." When she was satisfied with the closure, she pierced Blair's skin and began to stitch. 

Eventually, she was finished, and she snipped the thread close to Blair's wrist. Once again, she wiped Blair's arm down with peroxide, only this time, Blair was asleep and didn't move. 

The young male missionary's voice disturbed the quiet. "He tried to kill himself, didn't he?" 

Jim glanced first at him, then the nurse. "Yes. Yes he did." 

"Such a shame. To squander the Lord's gift. He will surely suffer torments for such things." 

"Torments?" Jim asked, rising to his full height above the young man, who appeared only twenty. "What do you know of torments?" 

"The damnations of hell await those who forsake His Word." 

"And the damnations of life mean nothing to you?" 

"The sufferings of this world are our tests for the next." 

Jim rolled his eyes. "It don't have time for this bullshit." The vulgarity felt sweet and right to his lips. "I thank you for your help, and your kindness. I can pay you for it. As for the rest . . . this damnation crap . . . well, your judgments can kiss my ass." 

The young missionary paled, and the nurse just sighed. "Rodney, will you please check on the children." 

The young man opened his mouth as if to speak again, and the nurse shouted, "Rodney! Go check on the children!" 

He narrowed his eyes before leaving the room. 

"I'm sorry about that," she said, wiping her brow. 

"Thank you. I'm Jim Ellison, by the way." He held out his hand. 

"Allyson Greer." 

"I . . . didn't mean to offend you . . . by what I said. He just made me angry there." 

"Oh, it didn't bother me. I'm an atheist." 

"Then why the hell are you here?" 

She stood up and began to straighten her supplies. "Because in the absence of gods, it is the individual's responsibility to stand where loving gods should be." She snapped her medical kit closed. "I don't pretend to like what these people preach. It makes it worse that they are just children and all they're doing is mouthing what someone else has told them to say. But back home, there's a rich church filled with stuffed shirts who want to buy off their own sins by throwing money at it. Money that I can use to actually do good here." 

"Oh." He ran his fingers through Blair's salt-and-pepper curls. "Is he going to be alright?" 

"Yes. He should be fine. Let's take the tourniquet off and see if any bleeding erupts through the stitches. . . . There, that looks fine. We'll just keep it clean for a few days." She reached for a roll of gauze. "You were about to do the stitches yourself. Have you ever done that before?" 

"I was a medic. In the Army." 

"Ah." She began to wrap Blair's wrist. "I'll give you some supplies then. You . . . uhm . . . you two are . . . together, right?" 

Jim shook his head. "No . . . at least, not any more." 

"That's what I thought. I've been noticing the two of you around the village. Can't help it when there's so few of us. I figured there was a reason the two of you were keeping to yourselves. If I can give you enough supplies, then you can keep these evangelical babies out of your hair." 

"Thank you. I guess we should get out of their hair now." 

"I'll go with you. You'll need someone to make sure the rain stays off his wrist." 

* * *

After Allyson left, Jim stood over his guide's sleeping body. The nurse apologized for not having more than acetymetophin for Blair's pain when he woke up, but it was better than nothing. With his arms crossed, Jim studied the cot, how it was braced in the corner, and he made his decision. The rain continued, steady, drumming a lullaby on the tin roof above. Carefully, he pulled back the mosquito netting and slipped inside. With strong arms, he lifted Blair, then slid in behind him as he crawled onto the cot. Gently, he settled Blair down on his chest, between Jim's legs, and Jim leaned back against the wall. Tonight, he would hold his guide, as he had once held him years ago, when it was right and proper for them to sleep like this. 

The wind whispered in the trees, and Jim closed his eyes. His hands rested on his guide's chest, feeling the heartbeat like a metronome seduce him into sleep. 

A few hours before dawn, Blair shifted awake. Suddenly, he jerked as his brain remembered the night's events, and as he did, he felt Jim's muscled body behind him. "What the--" 

Jim woke up instantly. "Hold up there, Chief." 

"Where am I?" 

"We're in your cabin." 

"What are you doing here?" 

"Calm down. I just wanted to be close tonight so I could feel your heartbeat. Now lie back down. You've lost a lot of blood." 

In the dark, Blair felt humiliated and ashamed, only his weak body didn't have enough blood for a hot blush. Slowly, he rolled over onto his stomach and pressed his head against Jim's chest. In the dark, Jim stroked his back. And even though Blair wanted to crawl into a hole and dissolve into something putrid and unappealing, he couldn't resist the pleasure of Jim's touch on his skin. He closed his eyes and let the sweet sensation of his hands carry him back to sleep. 

* * *

The cry of the parrots echoing through the canopy rattled inside Blair's exhausted brain. That morning, he thought he felt up to this -- the sluggishness from losing blood had passed -- but he didn't consider that a day long hike through the jungle would have worn him down so much and so quickly. Without saying a word to the quiet sentinel a few steps before him, Blair dropped his pack and collapsed into the rotting leaf litter. He propped his elbows on his knees and stared into the brown and blond leaves, watching the glossy insects pick and crawl. He didn't want to be here. He couldn't believe that Jim had managed to talk him into this. That blood loss must have made him senseless. For months, he had felt a barely conscious need to see Jim appear and take him away, but now he realized Jim's presence had acted as a trigger. Two years of repression and denial had been chipped and cracked by the mere glance of Jim's bright blue eyes. 

The stitches in his wrist itched. He didn't even bother to scratch, much less look at it. He wanted to die and he was pissed that Jim had stopped him. Angry, and ashamed. With the toe of his weathered hiking boot, Blair crushed a black bug. He had to admit that Jim's reaction surprised him. Had Blair tried several years ago in Washington, Jim would have shouted and lectured and shook disappointed fingers at him. But for the past three days after the attempt, Jim had been nurturing, witty, distracting. Never once did he mention the real reason Blair was walking around with a bandaged wrist. He had fed him. He had kept his wound clean. He had even given him space to be alone, even though Blair knew Jim was outside with his senses dialed up to monitor him. 

During the afternoon of the second day, Jim first hinted at visiting the Chopec. He casually began to talk about how angry he had been when Incacha was dead and the EMTs would not respect his tribe's traditions, and that Blair had been there to keep him under control. He probed subtly for more information about Blair's one trip to visit the tribe, but his questions became more exacting. Why did he go? What was their reaction? Did he recognize any of the warriors who had come to Cascade? Why were they so judgmental about Jim not being there? Blair remembered looking at Jim after he had asked that question -- he had asked why the Chopec were judgemental about _Jim_ and not Blair. Jim wasn't the issue. They wanted to know why Blair had left his sentinel's side. 

He had enough guilt to deal with. He sure as hell didn't need to feel bad about leaving his sentinel. 

But the guilt was there, nonetheless. 

When Jim had first stepped clear of the area around the village, his senses automatically heightened. He didn't recall dialing them up, but there was something about being surrounded by the verdant vegetation that made it instinctive. Several feet away from Blair, he instantly heard him shuck his backpack. He looked behind him and saw Blair huddled on the ground. He glanced down at a clutch of ferns, wondering if the journey to the Chopec was a good idea. He could tell Blair was wearing out too quickly, even though he seemed well enough this morning. With heavy, disheartened steps, he pushed aside the wide leaves and walked back. He knelt down and asked, "You doing okay, Chief?" 

"No." His response sounded petulant. 

Jim shifted around and sat beside him. He lifted the canteen from his belt, unscrewed the cap, then handed it to Blair. 

Blair ignored it. 

"Chief?" 

"I'm not thirsty." 

"You're getting dehydrated." 

Blair pushed it away angrily. "I said no." 

"Chief, I haven't been an overbearing blessed protector, have I?" 

Blair's eyes grew wide with disbelief as he faced his friend. "This is like a joke, right?" 

Jim focused on cleaning his nails as he said, "You know, I didn't mind being called a blessed protector. But it would be nice if you acknowledged just once that maybe I'm always watching your back because you're my best friend and I love you." 

"Who are you?" 

"What?!" 

"What happened to the Jim who kept his feelings to himself." 

"Oh, I think I always told you what was on my mind." 

"Anger, yes. If I used the wrong tupperwear or left my socks on the floor or something. But the rest, no. Hell, I remember thinking this when I was in the hospital all that time ago, that you were suddenly so . . . expressive." 

Jim's gaze gradually met Blair's, and he said, "I guess I've had too many years to think about all the things I wish I had said to you." He nudged Blair's arm again with the canteen. "Now, I made a mistake about this trip and I'm pushing you too hard. Drink some water. It'll make you feel better. Please?" 

Rolling his eyes, Blair finally took the canteen and lifted it to his lips. 

"I noticed you were lagging behind me there," Jim added. 

Shoving the canteen back, Blair barked, "I was getting sick and tired of you smacking me in the face with every damn limb you passed!" 

Nonplused, Jim replied, "And you're a lot pissier lately, too." 

With a cold tone, Blair answered, "Maybe I have a right to be." 

"I . . . I'm sorry. I don't mean to stress you out. I just . . . I just thought that when a bad thing happens to a guy, well, it's up to his best friend to be there for him and . . . well . . . it's kinda hard for me to be there for you when you're deep in the jungle. I've been neglecting my duties, so to speak. I just . . . I just wanted to cheer you up." 

"Well, maybe I don't deserve cheering up." 

Jim resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "It's been two years -- never mind. That's none of my business. . . . Look, all I'm saying is this shoulder is here. When you're ready, you can lean on it. It's always going to be here. Just thought I'd bring it a little closer to you in case you were trying to reach for it and I wasn't here for you." 

Blair tried to control his breathing, and a few moments later, he said softly, "Thank you." He patted Jim's knee. "I mean it." 

Jim gave him a tight lipped smile. "We should probably think about making camp somewhere, soon. If I remember, there should be a small ridge about half a mile up." 

"Jim, how can you remember that? That was . . ." Blair counted in his head, "Almost fifteen years ago." 

"Yeah, I know, but something like that shouldn't change. Hell, I'm just amazed by there being a trading camp back here. When I was here, there wasn't any settlement for miles. Things change, I guess." He rubbed Blair between the shoulder blades. "Just tell me when you feel up to moving again." 

* * *

Blair slept uneasily that night. Jim had built a small fire, mainly for light. Along the way he had collected fruits for them to eat, and they carried some food with them. "So this is dinner?" Blair had asked. 

With one eyebrow raised, Jim had said, "You want me to find a few bugs for you to eat?" 

"You would make me eat a bug." 

"You know, I think it's pretty damn funny that after all those years in the loft with you trying to feed me crap that I _know_ you wouldn't feed your dog, here you are griping about what I'm feeding you." "Karma," Blair had replied with a wry tone. "Enjoy it while it lasts." 

When they had decided to get some sleep, Blair noticed that Jim set his blanket within reach, but he would not lie so close that they touched. He folded his arms against his chest as he lay on his side, his head pillowed by his backpack. Blair could tell by Jim's breathing that he wasn't asleep. As the night wore on, and the raucous sounds of growls and bird calls and the shift and brush of undergrowth, Blair would rouse himself. 

Finally, Jim's soft voice whispered, "You can relax, Chief. I'm on guard." Then his arm snaked around Blair's midsection and he tugged him hard, drawing him against his chest. 

"Jim--" 

"Just shut up and go to sleep, Chief." 

Gradually, Blair closed his eyes, the muscles on his face tense and hard. The pulse of Jim's body felt so soothing, the way it had that night when he had tried to slit his wrists, but Blair didn't want comfort. He wanted penance. He wanted the heat and the muck and the bugs and the intestinal sicknesses and the fevers and more than anything else the self-forsaking isolation. In this ascetic retreat, Jim had come, like some sensual demon offering the majesty of the world in place of his forty days. He had come into this wet hell and offered smiles, quips, hand shakes, pats on the back -- and a part of Blair creaked open -- that part that remembered how much he had relied on those small things to center himself. In the dark, listening to all the other gruesome creatures slithering in the undergrowth, he focused on Jim's touch, on the contact of flesh to flesh, and he could feel himself relax, even though every part of his heart demanded that he hold firm. With slow erosion, his tension wore away from the constant sense of comfort, and Blair's heart settled in a momentary peace. 

Rising out of unsteady dreams, Blair could sense the increased light and he began to rise. 

"Don't move," Jim commanded firmly. 

Blair opened his eyes, then drew in his breath. He started to twist himself free of Jim's grip, but Jim's hold wouldn't yield. 

Two Chopec warriors stood over them, poison-tipped arrows only inches from their face. 

As slowly and as non-threatening as possible, Jim raised his hand and said in broken Quechua, "We mean you no harm. I am Enqueri." 

Both warriors wrinkled their brows. 

"A friend of Incacha." 

"Where are you from?" 

"Cascade" 

Then Blair interrupted, "Great City." 

"What?" 

"Incacha called it the Great City." 

"Fine. . . . we're from the Great City. We came to see your shaman." 

The two warriors eyed each other, mumbling their thoughts, when finally one of them jerked his arrow several times, motioning for them to stand up. 

"I think this means we have an escort," Jim groaned as he stood up. They quickly gathered up their things and followed the painted warriors into the undergrowth. 

"How could you let them sneak up on us like that?" 

"I knew they were out there," Jim answered. "How are you feeling this morning?" 

"I could stand for some coffee." 

"Well this is the one place in the world you won't find a Starbucks." 

* * *

Even though the Chopec were semi-nomadic, their village was exactly as Jim remembered it. Elegantly simple huts stitched with curving vines, thatched by wide green leaves. The villagers strode from hut to hut wearing only their thin loin cloths, red stripes decorating their amber flesh. Jim towered over them all as he was led into their midst. Blair remained a few steps behind them, not really looking forward to the look of disappointment and disapproval in their faces, and now he really began to regret following Jim here. 

The tribal elders rushed from one of the larger huts, and they all stared at Jim, dumbfounded. 

But Jim couldn't help but smile as he recognized the young warriors he had once known in their wrinkled faces. They swarmed on him, their hands touching his body as Jim patted them one by one. They only had a few more hours before sunset, and the old women snapped at the young girls to continue preparing the food as they slipped out to greet Incacha's Enqueri once again. 

Blair continued to hang back, but when he finally looked into one of the Chopec's eyes, he saw a different expression -- one of quiet gratitude \-- for bringing Enqueri to them. That stopped him from fidgeting, and his shoulders straightened on his spine. He almost smiled, and as if Jim could sense it, the sentinel turned around and wrapped his arm around his partner good-naturedly. 

Another elder approached -- the one who had dismissed Blair so soundly the one time he had ventured to this tribe. He stood erect, and he wore a wide band of wood across his forehead, hung with green parrot feathers. Jim grew quiet when he saw them. 

"Sonquo," he said. 

"Enqueri." 

"You were just a young man when I last saw you." 

"Incacha said you would return. Why have you left the Great City?" 

Jim turned to glance at Blair, not quite sure what to say. "I . . . uh . . . felt like I had to." 

"Come. Eat with me. We have much to talk about." 

* * *

As the pudgy-faced children stared and pointed at the sentinel and guide, Blair tapped Jim on the shoulder. "Hey Jim," he pointed to the tip of meat he had pierced on a stick, "what is this?" 

"Spider monkey." 

"Oh man." 

"Just eat it. It doesn't taste so bad, Chief. I mean, it's not a Wonderburger, but it'll do in a pinch." He winked a Blair with a grin. 

Blair just shook his head with a frown before nibbling on the barest triangle of burnt meat. 

"Enqueri?" 

Jim lifted his eyes to pay attention to Sonquo's words. "Yes?" 

"You should not be here." 

The sentinel turned to Blair, the confusion evident in his blue eyes, before he spoke. "Why?" 

"Your place is not with the Chopec." 

Blair let the meat fall back onto the banana leaf. Two years in the jungle had significantly improved his Quechuan, and Sonquo's words caused a string of nerves to tangle inside him. 

"I . . . I'm only here to . . . visit." 

"You gave your word to Incacha. This is not your tribe. Your tribe waits for you. You cannot stay." 

"I . . . I'm not planning to stay--" 

"The longer you stay, the more misfortune comes to your tribe. You must leave." 

* * *

Sonquo's words obviously disturbed Jim. For the first time since he came to Peru, Blair saw his jaw clench, and the muscles remained tight for the rest of the night. The two men shared a tiny lean-to, and a gentle rain fell, the drops of water clinging to the sharp tips of the man-sized leaves that made the roof. Blair watched how the moon reflected in the rippling puddles on the ground. Beside him, Jim turned for the hundredth time and Blair rolled his eyes. He threw back the thin blanket, tossing a corner of it on Jim's back. The sentinel sat up on his elbows and watched as his guide drifted away into the darkness. 

At the farthest edge of the tiny village, Blair stood with his arms hooked in front of his chest. He didn't need to see. All he wanted to concentrate on were the random taps of rain on his shoulders and hair. There was a time not that many weeks ago when he had wondered what it would be like to be living in the jungles with Jim. Maybe even in some alternate universe where Jim stayed with the Chopec and didn't return to Cascade, whereas he had received some grant that coincidentally sent him to this sparsely populated region of the Amazon Basin. Here they would have met, without Rainier University and the doom that ensued, without Rafe and his death that had left Blair barren inside. It would have been magical and dreamlike. 

Then he appeared. 

And everything inside Blair began to fall apart. 

He didn't want Jim to go. He wanted him to stay. Maybe it was this growing realization that he needed to be with Jim, to share his life with him, that made it so easy for the detective to talk him into walking for a day and a half through the jungles without a native guide. 

But at the same time, whenever Jim touched him, he felt something cold open in his heart. Something that told him -- this is wrong. He felt a sadness blotched with infidelity. 

"You are wounded." 

Surprised, Blair spun around, gasping. When he recognized the small shaman standing there in the moonlight. The parrot feathers dangling around his face appeared strangely blue in the dim light. Sheepishly, Blair looked down at his bandaged arm. 

"Yeah . . . this." 

"No. It is not that. There is a tear inside you. It has been there for many years. Your blood will continue to flow until you bring the flesh back together. Leave it open, and pain and sickness will continue to live in your heart." Then the shaman pointed to Jim, lying still in the lean-to. "Only when you stand by his side will the wound begin to heal." 

Blair stared at his friend feigning sleep although Blair knew he was awake. 

Sonquo indicated the bandage on the man's wrist. "This is but one flower. It grows up through your skin from one single root. If you do not dig up that root, more flowers will appear on your skin." Holding his hand, Blair stared at the gauze. 

"Honor your promise to Incacha. You must be his guide." 

Suddenly Blair's anger sparked. "Are you saying that it's bad luck for me to leave Jim? Are you saying that the reason Brian is dead is because I didn't stay with Jim?!" Rage burned inside him, catching the straw of his suffering and rushing through his body. He wanted to choke the little man, to squeeze his fingers and feel his voice-box crack. 

With a calmness that threw water on Blair's temper, Sonquo merely said, "Your mate's death was at the end of his path. You are not responsible for when a man leaves this earth. What you are responsible for is how you live with the people whose lives you touch." Sonquo came closer, and he whispered, "I have seen your unhappiness, in dreams. I have felt the pain of Enqueri and his guide, and I beg my ancestors to help you." His rough hand touched Blair's. "What I have seen . . . is a man who needed love . . . who deserved love . . . and I saw Enqueri's guide hand him something precious. I saw him make a man feel loved. . . . It is a great gift to know love . . . but it is even better to know that you have the power to give love to those who hunger for it." 

* * *

For two days, neither Jim nor Blair spoke to each other. When they reached the meager trading post that afternoon, Blair slipped inside his cabin and crumpled on the thin cot. Sleep came over his quickly, and he didn't wake up until sometime after nightfall. "Jim?" He scanned the cabin and didn't see him. Pulling himself awkwardly from the cot, he ran his hands over his beard, then walked out the door. From the porch, he could see the riverbank. 

Jim was standing there, staring off into the distance, where the river curved into jungle. 

Shaking his head, Blair returned to his cabin. He lit a candle, then grabbed a random book of his bookshelf. He didn't care which one -- anything that would give his eyes something to do while his mind hibernated. Sonquo's words were haunting Jim just as much as they clawed at Blair. Yes, he knew he needed to be at Jim's side, and he wanted that . . . somewhat . . . but he couldn't go back. He couldn't face the Great City and all the memories that poked out of every building and tree and face like invisible branding irons, just waiting to scald the heart. 

He was just too . . . afraid. 

Sometime later, the cabin filled with flickering shadows. Blair's heart jumped into his throat before he realized it was nothing more than the sputtering candle trembling in a flat pool of wax. 

All this time, Jim had never come back. Closing the book, Blair sensed something, like a premonition, that he needed to be by Jim's side. 

The full moon hung large in the sky, its lower hemisphere still obscured by the tops of the huge trees. The air seemed purple still, and the moon a bright yellow. Jim stood there at the edge of the river, staring in the mottled ball, his mind adrift. The infant-like cry of the giant river otters didn't distract him, and neither did Blair's approaching footsteps. His cautious voice startled him. "Jim?" 

He shifted slightly to look at him. "Chief." 

"You've been out here a long time." 

He started to laugh but stopped himself quickly. "That's odd, coming from you." 

"I have a good reason to be here." 

Jim could only nod. After a moment of silence, he said, "I've been thinking." 

"I know. I guessed you were." 

"I was just thinking about what Sonquo said." 

"Oh." 

"He's right, you know. I made a promise to Incacha. To stay in Cascade. To . . . guard over the city." 

Blair focused on the reflection of the moon in the gently swirling water. Almost two weeks ago, he couldn't believe that Jim was standing there in front of him. Here, in the jungle. A month before, and he wouldn't have cared. He had moved about this tiny village like a phantom. But that mid-morning on the riverbank, it was as if that small child who threw the stick in the water had no concept of the kinds of ripples that engulfed Blair now. He . . . didn't want Jim to go. He wanted him to stay and he wanted to be by his side, but . . . "I . . . can't leave. Not just yet." 

Jim swallowed hard. "Oh. I see." 

"I'm still . . . not ready to face that place." 

"Oh." Jim turned to stare into the jungle, at the dark glossy leaves and silver tree trunks he could see in the moonlight. Finally, he said, "Blair, I want you to know something. . . . I . . . I love you." 

"Jim--" 

"Let me finish. I know that . . . things are tough. I mean, I think I agree with you, for the most part because, well, after . . . after Rafe, I don't know if I can do it, either, you know? I think . . . I think I'd just feel too guilty. Taking you from him. He . . . was good to you . . . when I wasn't." Jim turned to face him. "But Blair, I miss you. You're my best friend. Probably the best I ever had. I miss you. I want you to come back. It doesn't have to be anything more than that. But I need you. And I want you. Will you please consider it?" 

Blair remained silent for a while. Then, in the dark, he placed his hand over Jim's heart, and his thumb massaged a circle on the cloth-covered flesh. "I'll . . . I'll think about it." 

* * *

The next morning, Jim packed his small bag in silence. He hadn't carried much to the village. Most of his luggage he had left in a locker in the Lima airport. The thing he valued most shuffled around the tiny cottage with his eyes averted and his wrist bandaged. Every muscle in Jim's body twitched to hold the man, to pull him close and to kiss him like a starving man. But his stoic control remained intact. He would not do this thing. He would not take advantage. He would not move in and steer Blair like a blinded calf. For six years he had been this man's partner, and he knew that even if he could seduce Blair now, the man would not forgive him for it later. 

"The pamacari's here," he said, his ears picking up the sounds of the local motorized boat as it drew near the dock. 

"How can you hear --" then Blair stopped himself. Of course he could hear it. So many words hung in his heart, so many phrases and thoughts, but he couldn't say them. Just couldn't speak. Speaking one would open the floodgate and he didn't know if he could do that. Not yet. It still felt wrong. Disloyal. It stank of betrayal, and he just couldn't do it yet. 

But he wanted it. Tonight, he would bawl like a pathetic weakling, but he just couldn't say it. Couldn't say the truth that his heart was pumping voicelessly -- /I love you Jim and I always have and since that day when it happened every time I feel how much I need you his face comes into my mind and I can see how much I would hurt him if I went to you and it hurts./ 

He had to blink the wetness from his eyes before Jim saw him. In silence, he followed his sentinel to the dock and watched as he handed a thick fold of sols to pay for his trip back to the nearest real town. He dropped his pack on the floor of the boat, then sat down. 

And looked on his guide one last time. 

Even from where he stood, Blair could see the pain in the other man's eyes. But there was nothing he could do. He still had one more scar to heal. 

As the boat pulled away, Jim continued to stare at the man he loved, burning his image on his retinas. He hoped that when he returned, he would always see his silouette like a solar scar everywhere he turned. 

And Blair, knowing that Jim would continue to dial up his sight until the curve of the river obscured his vision, remained on the shore, long after he couldn't make out Jim's shape. 

Then he went back into his cabin. Shut the door. And he wept. 

* * *

July 2004 

Jim settled down on the sofa, and Burton climbed onto the cushion beside him. The dog watched as Jim turned on the television and began flipping channels, looking for the Braves - Mariners baseball game on the Superstation. Burton immediately began to growl. 

"We watched the Discovery channel last night." 

Then Burton barked. 

"Hey, I've wanted to watch this game all day. I've got a bet riding on it. We can watch one of your damn nature shows later." Another bark came in response, and Jim added, "Didn't I give you part of my steak just now?" 

Huge round brown eyes peered up at him. 

"Oh, no. That will not work for you today." 

Burton just growled, then he rested his head in Jim's lap, admitting defeat. 

"Jeez, you're as bad as Blair sometimes." 

The dog thumped his tail on the sofa cushion a few times before drifting off to sleep. For almost thirty minutes, the two of them remained like this, as they did every night -- with Jim watching television and Burton beside him, his head in his lap. Every so often, Jim would perk up, yell at one of the outfielders, but Burton wouldn't pay any attention to him. He never did. 

Then, suddenly, Burton lifted his head, his ears pricked. "What is it, Chief?" He woofed a short complaint, then tore from the sofa, racing for the door, barking wildly. Jim's eyes narrowed, and he began to cross the room to reach his gun when something struck him. 

A sound. A sound he remembered. 

Burton continued to scratch at the door, his barking fever-pitched. Jim dialed up his senses and he caught a whiff of a long-missing scent. He couldn't believe it, and when he heard the knock on the door, he stood there in shock. Burton ran from the door to push on Jim's legs, then back to scratching. 

Slowly, Jim slipped the dead-bolt lock, and he turned the knob. As he cracked the door, Burton pushed his snout into the space and wiggled his way through. Then Jim heard the silken voice, "Oh my god, look at you!" 

His heart reached fever-pitch, and his muscles quivered so much Jim felt like he was going to faint. Still, he pulled the door open completely and his eyes fell on the man kneeling at the entrance, holding Burton tight as the dog showered his face with frantic kisses. His clothes were much nicer than the last time Jim had seen him -- his tattered jungle attire replaced by faded jeans and soft flannel. His beard had been trimmed close to his face. And maybe it was the fluorescent light in the hallway, but there appeared to be even more gray in his hair. 

"Blair?" 

Slowly, Blair rose to meet his friend. "Jim." Burton had just enough time to scramble out of Jim's way as the detective rushed into the hallway, swept Blair to his chest, covering him in a wrestler's hug and almost lifting him to his feet. "Oh, Blair, Blair, Blair." The bearded man melted against him, his arms embracing Jim's waist as the sentinel pressed his nose into his Blair's hair, feeling the curls brush against his skin. Jim took a deep breath, filling his lungs with his guide's scent. Neither was too sure how much time had elapsed as they stood there in the hallway, but they both wanted time to stop. They wanted this sweet embrace to last forever, feeling each other's strength and body heat and flesh and the rub of cloth. Gently, they rocked back and forth, their eyes closed, their hands stroking their backs softly -- too afraid to speak -- only willing to trust this one thing -- this tiny moment of intimacy. 

Eventually, they had to pull apart, and when they did, Jim's hand cupped his friend's face. "I . . . didn't think I'd ever see you again." 

"I wasn't too sure about it myself," Blair replied. 

"Well, come in. Let me get you a beer." 

Once inside, Burton demanded more attention, one paw raised and waving. Blair crouched down on his heels and wrapped his arms around his dog's neck. Then he straightened Burton's police bandana. "I missed you, boy." Burton whined softly, his tail wagging so hard that his back legs rocked back and forth. "Jim says you're a cop now. . ." His voice grew sad as he added, "I think Brian would be proud." Burton responded with a volley of kisses. Trying to regain some sense of composure, he asked, "So Jim, like has he been kidnaped yet? Shot at? Trapped in an elevator and dropped?" 

Jim returned with an opened bottle of beer which he placed in Blair's hand. He reached down and scratched behind Burton's ears. "Kidnapped, no. Shot at, a lot. No elevators that I know of. He got drugged once." 

Blair shook his head. "I guess some things don't change." 

"Yeah. He won't stay when I tell him to, either." 

Jim sat down on the floor, and Blair made himself more comfortable, too, but not before saying, "We might not better sit here. I think we're both getting too old for hard floors." 

"When did you get back?" 

"I went back to Gonzaga last month. Defended my dissert." He looked Jim in the eyes. "I'm a doctor now. I guess it took me long enough." 

"You just had to make a few stops along the way." 

Blair smiled. The man squatting on the floor beside him was much older than the day he had first met him, back at Rainier. If someone had approached him then, while he was banging away on his desk in rhythm to his grunge music and told him all that would befall his destiny with this one meeting, it would have seemed impossible to believe. And in truth, there was still some sense of unreality to it all -- life with Jim had been a wild ride of unpredictable events and turns. But today, so many years later, his dark brown hair was lightened by gray and much thinner. Wrinkles spread across his face, but that only gave him a rugged appearance -- strong, weathered, incredibly handsome and powerful. Even more so than before. But regardless, his striking blue eyes remained fresh and young. 

"When did you get back in town?" 

"This morning. I think I scared the hell out of Megan." 

Jim laughed slightly. 

"She even drew her gun on me. I guess I should have called her first. I really should have knocked on the door." Blair traced circles on his jeans with his fingers. "But . . . I waited until tonight to come over. I figured you'd be home then." 

"No stake-outs tonight," Jim said. "For a change." He brushed his hand down Blair's arm and noticed the creased scar on his wrist. And the gold ring. "How are you holding up?" 

Blair's eyes couldn't hide how exhausted he was. "It hasn't been easy. I see Brian everywhere." Looking down, he suddenly felt Jim's fingers twine with his. Such an intimate gesture -- one that felt so comforting \-- made his heart skip a beat, then soothe into a slower rhythm. "But I guess, I either face it here or I stay in the jungle and see you everywhere." 

"This Jim will talk back to you," Jim said softly. 

Blair nudged him. "All Jim Ellisons talk back to you." 

The tension rolled from Jim's tight shoulders. It had been so long since Blair had last quipped with him. It felt good. It felt right. 

Burton squeezed in between them, placing his head in Blair's lap. Even so, Blair didn't release his hold of Jim's hand. They remained on the hardwood floor, their older bodies complaining but both of them ignoring it. Jim placed his other hand on the small of Blair's back, rubbing it kindly. He kept their conversation light, too afraid to bring up sensitive subjects. Jim felt like he had just captured a frightened rabbit, and any sudden moves would send him darting into the undergrowth. But he knew that this nondescript evening -- two men and a dog -- sitting on an uncomfortable wooden floor -- felt like a dream come true. 

Eventually, Blair yawned. Jim moved his hand from Blair's back to brush his salt-and-pepper hair from his face. "You're starting to wear out, baby." 

"Yeah, I am. I guess I need to be getting back home." 

"Do you need a ride?" 

"No. I've got a car. I bought one when I got back. Two years in the jungle and I've barely touched Brian's . . . insurance." He dropped his sight into his lap. 

Jim placed his finger under Blair's chin and forced him to make eye contact. "I . . . still have that bed in there." He motioned towards the guest bedroom. "You can crash here if you like. We can have breakfast together. Like old times." 

Blair ran the back of his fingers down Jim's cheek. The way Jim shivered at his touch, his mouth slightly open, sent a nervous chill through the guide. "No. I'd like to. Very much. But I think we need to take this slow. . . No mistakes this time." 

Jim's heart began to glow, and the happiness flashed in the wrinkled corners of his eyes. /Blair wants to try again!/ For years Jim had wished for this day, and now it was dawning. He would have him. He would have him again, in time. "Okay, baby." 

With groans and curses, both men stretched their cramped joints and stood up. Burton shifted uneasily around them. The two men embraced each other again, squeezing tight, stilling their emotions like a cupped hand around a flame. Finally, Blair opened the door and stepped out into the hall. 

Burton followed after him, barking. When they got to the elevator, he circled, whining. 

"Do you want to go home with me?" Blair asked. 

Burton barked once before slinking back to Jim. Then Blair knew it. Burton was no longer _his_ dog. He belonged to Jim. He was his new guide now. There was no way he was going to leave his partner. Blair's heart fell a little, and he stepped into the elevator with heavy spirits. 

With sad eyes, Burton peered up at Jim. Without making another sound, the dog withdrew into the loft, his ears drooping, his tail lax between his legs. Jim sighed with sympathy as he watched his dog slowly climb the stairs into the bedroom. Locking up and turning off the lights, Jim joined him. On the bed, Burton lay in a tight curl with his tail hiding his eyes. Jim's eyes misted as he looked down on his crushed pet. He sat down beside him and stroked his fur. "Chief, I know it hurts. I wanted him to stay, too. But we've got to give him his space." 

Burton would not be consoled, and he remained in a tight ball, his eyes closed, confused and frustrated and unable to understand the frailties of the human heart. 

* * *

The next day, both Jim and Burton argued in the bullpen as the dog continued to knock the phone from its cradle. Each time, Jim kept putting it back, his jaw growing more tense as Burton pawed it again from his seat in the chair next to Jim's desk. "Damnit, Chief, stop it. I'm not calling him and that's final." 

Burton barked before he nosed the phone closer. 

"I told you last night that's not how this is going to work." 

At that moment, Simon stood over his desk, his arms crossed. "Ellison, this is just too damn weird." 

"What is, sir?" 

Simon waved his hand back and forth between Jim and Burton. "This . . . this talking thing. Cut it out. It's too weird." 

Jim looked at him, puzzled. "I don't understand." 

Simon placed both hands on the desk and leaned forward. "Stop talking to the dog like he's a person. And that's final." 

Burton growled, and Simon pointed is finger in his face. "And you . . . don't give me any guff." He turned and stormed into his office, while Burton looked back at Jim, his tail wagging with an obvious grin on his canine face. 

"You're impossible. Now let me get some work done. If you're good, then I'll call Blair." Burton barked and turned around once in his chair. "But not until this afternoon. Got it?" Burton curled into a ball on the chair and closed his eyes. Glancing over at him once, Jim felt a twinge of resentment. 

/How come he gets to sleep at work?/ 

Almost thirty minutes later, Burton's head jerked up, his ears pricked, staring towards the elevator well. He whined slightly as he jumped from his chair, drawing Jim's attention as he did it. Jim's vision followed his blond dog as he slipped around other detectives and left the bullpen. "Now where the hell are you going?" He slapped his ballpoint pen down and rose from his chair. 

Once outside, he saw Burton growing even more agitated around the elevators, barking and spinning around. Like the night before, Jim sensed it -- a particular heartbeat, and he started to smile -- for a brief second before he began to panic. /Shit! Blair doesn't need to see me hanging at the front of the elevator waiting for him. I need to back off. Give him some space./ 

"Burton! Come on, Chief, back off." 

But the dog would not be controlled, and when the elevator opened, he darted inside, rushing around Blair's legs like a cat. Sandburg stepped out of the elevator, then knelt down to hug his dog. "Hey, boy. See, I told you I'd be back." Blair peered up, then smiled at Jim. "Hey, Jim." 

"Hey to you, too." 

Standing up, but bending slightly to continue to rub his dog, he looked around. "Doesn't seem like anything's changed." 

"You feel okay with that?" 

Blair straightened, then crossed his arms over his chest. "I feel like Brian's going to walk around the corner any minute." 

Jim rubbed the small of his back to comfort him. "You're among friends." "Yeah . . . I guess I am." 

Just as he let his eyes take in the hallway towards the Major Crimes bullpen, he saw the bulky figure of an old friend. Joel Taggart looked up -- their eyes met -- and he almost dropped the files in his hands. "Good lord." 

Blair smiled. "You look like you've seen a ghost." 

Joel came forward with a warm, melting smile. "I don't know if I'm seeing a ghost or not." He hugged him tightly. "Blair Sandburg. Connor told me you were back in town. I was beginning to think I'd be dead before I saw you again. It's good to see you again, buddy." With his arm around Blair's shoulder, he led him into the bullpen. 

Inside, Henri Brown ran his hand over his clipped hair and remained focused on his report. Coming up behind him, Blair looked at the computer screen, leaned in close, then whispered, "You might want to save that, in case it crashes." 

Brown tried to wave him off before he recognized the voice. Slowly, he spun his chair around and his eyes fell on Blair. "Sandburg!" he shouted, leaping from the chair and tackling Blair in a bear hug. "Holy shit, where the hell did you come from?!" 

"I just got back." 

Brown instantly pulled away and readjusted his arms and shoulders in a very masculine, 'I'm okay' move. "Well, I'm glad you're back, man. You doing all right?" 

"I'm holding together." 

The detective wiped his hand across his face. "What's all this?" 

Blair rubbed his beard. "Just a little something I picked up." He let his line of vision scan the room, and when he did, he saw that Rhonda had been staring at him the entire time. Gradually, she rose from her chair and began to move towards him. As she did, Blair could easily see her eyes filling with warm tears. 

"Blair Sandburg?" 

He pulled her into a tender hug. "Rhonda. I missed you." 

"Oh, that is such an understatement." 

After another squeeze, he asked, "So what's changed with you?" 

Rhonda held up her hand and displayed her sparkling engagement ring. 

Blair grinned. "Mike is finally making an honest woman of you!" 

"Mike nothing. I dumped that loser last year." Then her face softened. "And about six months ago I met the nicest guy in the world. We get married next month. Will you be here? Will you come? Please?" 

Blair turned to face Jim as he answered. "Yes. I'll be here." 

At those words, Jim felt every bell and whistle scream in his heart and he could feel the power of the statement blasting through him. /Yes! Blair is staying./ 

"What is all this?" Simon's gruff voice rolled through the bullpen as he stormed out of his office. "Why is everyone just standing around. We're overloaded as it--" 

His dark eyes fell on Sandburg's form, and his cigar dropped from his hands, rolling in a semi-circle on the floor. "Sandburg?" 

"Captain. You've changed. You've got a lot of gray hair to you." 

Simon came forward, his finger pointing. "You've don't have much room to talk, kid." 

Blair grinned. "Kid." 

Suddenly, it became too much. Simon snatched him close, hugging him tight and almost lifting Blair from the floor. "Oh, son, son," he whispered as he held the back of Blair's head tight. "Are you okay?" 

"I'm fine, sir." 

Still holding him, Simon turned them both around, not wanting the other detectives to see the emotion filling his eyes. "I worried." 

"I'm sorry, sir." 

He pulled back. "But you're okay?" 

"Yes sir." 

"Are you . . . are you staying?" 

"Yes." 

Simon's back snapped ram-rod straight. "Good. Listen, I have a case on my desk right now. Smuggling operation. Kenyan goods. Some of it's ivory. You think you can handle it?" 

Rolling his shoulders, Blair finally said, "I . . . I guess. It's what I came here to talk to you about." 

"I'll get the paperwork started." He patted Blair on the shoulder. "I've had all this prepared since you left. Ready at a moment's notice." "Such a good Boy Scout." 

"Don't get cute with me, Sandburg," he huffed. "Can you get down to Personnel today?" 

"I . . . uhm . . . I sorta . . . . need to see someone today." 

Simon saw the awkward look on his face, and his tone softened. "Oh . . . of course. You can come back tomorrow." Before he slipped back into his office, Simon smiled at him one last time. "It's good to see you back, kid." 

"Thanks, sir." 

Left alone, Blair lifted his chin to gaze into Jim's eyes. "Well, that went easier than expected." 

Jim reached out to touch Blair's shoulder, then pulled away before he did. "You knew Simon would have taken you back." 

"Yeah . . . . I guess, deep down, I did." 

The sentinel shoved his hands into his pocket, and Blair slipped around him. "Uhm, Blair?" 

He looked back. "Yeah?" 

"So . . . uhm . . . who are you going to see?" 

"I . . . I need to go see Brian." 

Jim felt the chill in his bones, but he refused to let the feeling show on his face. As he watched Blair approach the exit, he called out. "Hey, Blair?" 

"Yeah?" 

"Why don't you take Burton with you?" 

Burton barked. 

Pointing, Jim ordered, "Go with Blair." Burton whined and looked back and forth between the two men. "No, I'll be fine today. You need to go with Blair." The dog trotted halfway to his former owner before turning back to Jim with a confused expression. "It's okay. I'll pick you up tonight. Make sure Blair's okay." Then he said to Sandburg, "Burton knows the way." 

Blair's eyebrows furrowed. "He . . . what?" 

"He's been before." 

"To Brian?" 

"Uh . . . yeah." 

"You took my dog to see Brian?" 

"Well, he used to be Rafe's dog, right?" 

Suddenly, Blair's face softened with the reaction. "Yes. Yes he was." Patting his thigh, he said, "Come on, Burton. Let's go see your other daddy." 

* * *

Traffic was unexpectedly tight that evening as Jim left the station. He hadn't heard back from Blair all day, and he assumed he would go back to their townhouse when he was done. Once Jim was finally able to pull onto Interstate 5, he had to concentrate. /Now . . . how do I get there?/ For close to two years now, he hadn't driven to Blair and Rafe's townhouse \-- too afraid of the demons that hung in the air. While his truck inched further north from downtown, he imagined various routes and means to the townhouse until he was certain of the best way. It was over an hour later when he got there. He brought the truck to a halt in front of the house, and his mind stopped. The last time he had come here, he and Blair had had a blistering argument, then Rafe came in, angry and ready to fight. 

Two years ago. For Jim, it certainly felt that long. Waiting for Blair, he couldn't imagine being that distraught over someone's loss. Not for two years. 

/You would if it were Blair./ 

But that wasn't the point. The point was, Blair was the one who had to heal from a death at the worst possible time -- when he had been forced to make a choice -- Jim -- or Rafe. 

He knocked on the door and listened. In a few moments, Megan opened it. "Jim. Come in." 

Jim kissed her cheek. "Is Blair home?" 

"He's upstairs." 

"How is he?" 

"He won't come down. Said he went to see Brian today." Then she sighed. "I'm really worried about him. I don't know if this is normal." 

"He's coming around," Jim said. "You should have seen him in Peru." 

Upstairs, Blair lay in a fetal curl on the guest bed. He didn't have the heart to move Megan out of the master bedroom, and he wasn't altogether sure that he could sleep in there himself. Being in this house had been tough enough. Megan hadn't made any changes to the house at all -- the same colors -- the same pictures -- even the lamps were the same -- the one patched. 

Burton had sprawled on the bedspread within arm's length of the man. The trip to the cemetery had worn Blair out. When he had gotten there, the shock of it rushed upon him and mugged his heart. The detail that tore at him the most -- was the grass. Two years ago, the last time he stood here, there was an muddy rectangle cut with perfect angles and hungry to be fed. 

Now . . . the grass lay so even and thick that it looked like he had been buried there for years. 

And Blair realized it. He had been buried for years. Yet this was his first time back. Blair had leaned against the hard stone and traced Brian's name with his finger. "Pal of my heart," he had whispered before his throat choked. 

Burton perked up on the bed. Blair glanced up and saw Jim standing in the doorway. Without a word, he sat down on the mattress and began to rub Blair's arm. "I . . . I would have died in his place, Blair." Then he regretted his words. "You . . . uh . . . probably don't want to hear that right now." 

"Yep," Blair replied, "I don't want to hear that right now." 

"Burton and I'll leave you alone then." He stood up from the bed and patted his leg. "Come on, Chief, let's go." 

Burton stood up on the bed just as Blair said, "I don't want to go anywhere." 

Then he realized something was wrong. 

Rising up, he saw Burton jump off the bed. "Wait a minute . . ." He pointed his finger. "You call him Chief, too?" 

Jim's mouth gaped open, not sure of a response. "Uh . . . force of habit." He rubbed his fingers nervously. "Look . . . I . . . I don't know. It just sounded right. And it made me feel good to still be able to say it. I'm sorry if it hurts your feelings. He . . . he really likes it when I do that." 

Despite his sadness, Blair smiled weakly. "I . . . I don't mind. It's kinda funny, almost." 

Jim released all of his apprehension with a quick breath. "He . . . he was okay today, wasn't he?" 

"Burton? He was fine." 

"Good. Good. Uhm, listen Chief --" 

Burton started to wag his tail. 

"No . . . I'm talking to Blair," he said to the dog. Looking back up, he said, "I've been thinking. Uhm . . . I don't want to rush you or push you into something you don't want, but . . . well . . . I was thinking . . . uhm . . . do you want to come over to our place tomorrow? For dinner? I was thinking of getting some salmon steaks and doing something with that . . . uh . . ." 

Blair thought about it for a while before he said, "Sure." 

The smile on Jim's face burned through the bedroom's dim lamplight. "Good. Good. I'll, uh, see you tomorrow then. Are you coming by the station?" 

"Yeah. To meet with Personnel." 

"Okay. Drop by the bullpen when you get in. We can decide on the time then." 

"I will." As Jim turned to leave, Blair called out, "And Jim?" 

"Yes." 

"Thank you . . . for knowing I needed to be alone tonight." 

Jim grinned, his eyes sparkling. "I'm not going to push myself on you, Chief. But you know I'm here when you need me. All you have to do is call." He walked away, and Blair could clearly hear him on the stairs. "Yes, I call him Chief, too. You'll just have to get used to it." There was short woof. "No, I called him Chief first." 

* * *

The guest bedroom crowded Blair that next night. He had dressed for the evening in comfortable jeans, and his nervous energy caused his to constantly run his hands across his thighs as he stood there in front of his dresser. Every so often, he would gaze on his reflection in the mirror, see the older man standing there with his hair in a neat pony tail, his oval glasses that he found himself needing more often, and the dark blue flannel shirt tucked neatly into his jeans. He was going to see Jim tonight. This was no casual get together. This wasn't about friends watching a game on television. This was about dinner. This was about taking the first conscious step. 

This was about getting back together. 

This was about renewal. 

He twisted the gold band on his finger, then saw Rafe's picture, framed, the two of them on an old tugboat off the San Juan Islands, searching for whales. 

And there. On the edge of the dresser. His silver badge. And his pistol. 

Stepping back into that fold had been a lot easier than Blair had imagined. Being a detective was work. It was a profession. It was something you did and it was either in your blood or it wasn't. The Personnel paperwork clicked through the system with gear-regularity and before he knew it he was standing in front of a digital camera getting his badge made then reporting to the weapons sergeant to obtain his gun. Done and done. Simon handed him a thick folder of the evidence the department had collected so far on the smuggling ring, which he took home with him to read, saying he would officially report to duty on Monday. 

Just a few days away. 

Like a puzzle piece that had been missing for too long, Blair fit with a snap back into the routine. He would be Ellison's partner again. Simon asked him if that would be okay -- did he want to work with Connor instead? 

"No," he had answered Simon firmly. "I came all this way to be Jim's partner." 

Again he stared at his reflection. He anxiously rolled the ends of his shirt-sleeves, then realized he hadn't put on any cologne. When he reached for an old, dusty bottle, he realized. 

Jim didn't like cologne. Rafe was the one who like to smell cologne. And his favorite bottles were still in a box under Megan's bed. 

Blair sagged as all of his resolve melted away. His vision touched on their photograph again and he rolled his head back. "What the hell am I doing?" He wound his ring around his knuckle again, vacillating, before he finally pulled it free. 

It was the first time he had ever done that. 

And like a pail of ice flung on his chest, Blair shivered. With a shaky hand, he set it down on the dresser beside their photo. The circle of gold mesmerized him, and when he tried to look away, he couldn't help but focus on the telling crease on his third finger where he had worn it for so long. And although tears didn't form in his eyes, he could feel the pressure on the back of his throat. He could see the crushed expression on Brian's face and he couldn't do it. He couldn't do it. He snatched up the ring and shoved it back on his finger. 

"I'm sorry, Jim. I'm sorry. I . . ." He thought about it for a while. /For now, this is who I am. I'm the widower of the late Brian Rafe. This ring stays with me. It means something. You'll just have to understand./ 

A knock on the doorframe distracted him. It was Megan. "You know, you're going to be late." Blair turned back to face the mirror. He picked up his badge, then holstered his gun before strapping it around his shoulder. She laid her hand on his arm and she said, "I don't think I'll ever get used to you carrying a gun." 

"Who'd'a though it?" 

"You're nervous, aren't you?" 

"Damned scared is more like it." 

"It's not a first date, you know?" 

Blair gave her a tight-lipped smile. "If this were a first date, it'd be a hell of lot easier." 

"Oh, Sandy," she hugged him tight before wincing. "Ow. You're gun's poking me." Then she laughed. "Relax mate. It's just Jim. I guarantee you, you're a cool cucumber compared to Jim right now." "I . . . I don't want to give him the wrong idea." 

"Sandy, the only thing Jim's working on right now is making sure you're still his best friend. Jim's amazing. I'll hand him that. But Brian's a hard act to follow, and I don't know if Jim's self-confidant enough to think he can fill his shoes." 

Blair looked at her funny. 

"And all this time, you though it was the other way around. Didn't you?" Megan asked. "You thought Brian was the one trying so hard to make you forget Jim?" 

He swallowed hard. "Never thought about it like that." 

"Well, you need to get moving. I'm sure Jim's burned the first dinner by now, and he's rapidly scorching the second." 

* * *

This time, Jim knew what Burton's barking meant. Fumbling in the kitchen, he dropped his knife into the sink, metal clanging against metal before Blair's knock blasted through the loft. Jim nearly jumped from his skin. /Breathe deep,/ he chanted with his arms held slightly away from his sides. /Think calm thoughts./ After one final breath, he forced his legs to walk calmly to the door. 

And tonight Burton didn't rush past his legs to greet Blair. Instead, he sat beside Jim with his tongue lolling and his tail thumping the floor. It gave Jim a chance to really look at his love. The years had only made him more handsome. The lines around his mouth and nose gave him a harder edge. More determined. And his oval glasses seemed so wise, so composed. The shoulder holster tightened his flannel shirt to his wiry frame. The dark beard, and the gun, made him look so ruggedly masculine. His salt-and-paper hair wasn't receding, but it was thinning, becoming more controlled, less bushy, infinitely more alluring. Jim fought the urge to untie his ponytail and run his fingers through it once more. 

"You . . . uh . . . look really good," he muttered. 

Blair blushed, then he pointed to the floral print apron Jim was wearing. "I think my mother has that apron." 

The laugh snuck up on him, and Jim rolled his eyes afterwards. He stepped out of the way of the entrance and returned to the kitchen. "I was getting a little worried there." 

Blair unstraped his gun and hung it next to Jim's on the wall. He stroked Burton's fur and said, "I wasn't going to let you down." 

"That's not what I meant." 

Being back in the loft, the two of them speaking easily with each other, seemed so disjointed with his life, as though he had fallen through a slip of time and it was instead six years ago. He moved up beside Jim and said, "Don't I get a hug?" 

Jim grinned, and he pulled the man into a loving embrace, his hands roaming across his back and his cheek pressed against Blair's hair. "Sorry. I'm leaving it up to you to make the calls when it comes to that." 

"Fair enough." He craned his neck to look around Jim. "What are you fixing?" 

"I'm broiling some salmon steaks. Shouldn't take long." He handed Blair a glass of cabernet. "Made the salad before. It's in the fridge." Jim opened the oven door and glanced inside. When he did, Blair saw two big slices and one much thinner. 

"Which one of us gets that piece on the end?" 

"That's Burton's." 

"You're feeding my dog fish? Jim, it has bones in it." 

With his hands on his hips, Jim replied, "I pick the bones out before I get it to him, all right?" He closed the door. "It'll be ready in a second." He hooked his thumb towards the coat rack. "I see you picked up your gun today." 

"Yep. Badge, too." 

"When do you start?" 

"Monday." Blair cocked his head to one side, his eyes still on Jim, when he added, "I'm your partner. Is that okay?" 

Jim's eyes sparkled and he started to say something. His mouth remained open for a second, and then he just shook his head. "Don't know what to say." 

"Is it wrong?" 

"Wrong? Oh no, it's not wrong -- it's just that -- I don't know." He grinned. "I've wanted to hear that for so long." 

The dog barked. 

"Uhm," Jim began, "you might want to ask Burton if it's okay, too." 

* * *

Jim placed the last of the dirty dishes in the sink, letting them soak. He felt Blair's hand on the small of his back as he looked at the remains of their dinner. "You want to wash them, don't you?" Blair jibbed. 

"They can wait." As he turned away, he pulled Blair by the shoulder towards the living room. Neither of them had been prepared for how relaxing the night had been, and about thirty minutes into the dinner, Blair was beginning to feel a little embarrassed by his earlier apprehensions. The roller coaster ride had been there. He had felt himself getting so happy and contented and when that hill crested, guilt would drag him down and he would grow silent. As if Jim could sense those moments, he would change the subject each time. 

With Jim's hand on his shoulder, Blair's mood was relaxed when he slipped out of the kitchen. He left Jim pouring the last of the wine. All night, he had noticed his old bedroom with the glass french doors closed. Sometimes he would stare at them. Other times, his heart would darken and he would avert his eyes. Now, feeling the lightness from the wine, his full stomach and Jim's casual company, Blair paused. Like a child touching a mirror for the first time, he lifted his fingers, holding them steady as he approached. Jim had just finished pouring when he turned to see Blair's frozen stance. With two goblets in his hands, Jim remained motionless, afraid of startling Blair from his thoughts. Gradually Blair's fingers brushed the wooden frames around the glass squares. Jim thought that Blair would only stare into the glass as though his room were a memory box or a museum diorama. 

The sentinel's heart skipped when Blair's fingers curled around the doorknob and twisted. The door creaked on its hinges. Jim's heightened hearing picked up on Blair's quickened breath as he stepped into the dark. 

Jim gave him a moment before he set the wine glasses on the counter. Butterflies fluttering in his stomach as he involuntarily imagined the worse reactions Blair could have. He dialed up his vision and stepped into the darkened room. 

Blair's body revolved slowly, taking in the corners, the futon he once slept on, the dark bedspread he had left behind years ago, the old bookshelf and desk. In this room, he had lain on that bed and dreamed of Jim coming to him when the hunger first sprouted. There were nights when Blair would strain his eyes over yellow-paged books, scribbling notes and taping away on his small laptop, only to have Jim slip up behind him and kiss the side of his neck. And here it was that Blair had come in on that one anxious night to find Jim packing his things. More painfully, this was the room that Blair had sent himself in a self-imposed exile, waiting for Jim to come storming in and beg forgiveness. Only the knight who came was someone entirely different. 

"What are you thinking?" Jim's voice cut through his fog. 

"Hmmm?" He turned to face the man's silhouette in the doorway. "Lots of things . . . and nothing." He touched the bookcase. "You didn't change anything." 

"It was . . . tough to come in here." 

"I noticed the door squeaked. Rusty hinges are not the sort of thing I would have expected from the king of anal retention." 

"Times can mellow a guy." 

"Hmm," Blair nodded. "Time. It feels weird to be in here. You know? Like nothing's ever happened? Like we're back to the way things were." He could sense that Jim was much closer than before, and he pivoted in the dark. With his hands in his pockets, Jim seemed like a bashful child, full of questions and hopes but too afraid to start. "They were good times." 

"Do you ever wish you could go back? Do it again?" 

"Oh, hell no. Hell no." 

"Oh." The tone in Jim's voice sounded a little crushed, but not surprised. 

"Don't get me wrong. There were some good times. But if I could cut the last two years out of my life, I'd do it in a heart beat." 

Jim stared into his friend's face, loving the way the amber lights from the loft cut through the doorway and cast his face in half-shadow, half-glow. "I know," Jim said after a long silence. "I've thought about all of this every night. I dream about it sometimes. If I had just not insisted that you stand some place I thought was safe, rather than having you stand by my side. . . . You should have been by my side. Even with a bomb. If you were, you would have been safe. But instead you got hurt and then I freaked out and . . . Rafe freaked out and then you went--" 

Blair's hand fell on Jim's arm to silence him. 

Staring down at the floor, Jim whispered, "Sonquo was wrong. All this didn't happen because you left my side. It was because I wouldn't let you stay by my side. And . . . the car bomb wasn't the first time it happened." His voice cracked. "I can't stop thinking that I did this to you." His round, saddened eyes finally rose to peer into Blair's face. "I'm so sorry, Blair." He swallowed hard, "But this time, here, in this room, I'm not making the same mistake I made after Alex. I'm telling you now. I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I fucked up. I fucked up a lot of things. Years ago you knew that, and you let me be your friend, still. I'm . . . asking for that chance again." 

Blair placed his hands on Jim's hips. "You didn't create this, Jim. This is just the way the universe happens. It was an accident. Our jobs put us in extreme danger. It's just bound to happen. Have you ever stopped to think how many times we've both saved each other's lives? And not just the big stuff, but the coincidental stuff, too. How many times did we go eat a hot dog instead of going to a restaurant across from a bank being robbed?" 

"That's not the point, Chief." 

"Then what is the point?" 

"The point . . . I make judgements for you. You tell me you can do something and I don't believe you. I still treat you like a kid and . . ." 

"And I'm almost as old as you were on the day I met you." 

"I know. I know. That's what I'm saying. I fucked up. Not just for making you stand next to that car two years ago. But for not giving you the respect you deserve." "Stop it, Jim. I'm sick of beating myself up over this. I want it to stop. It's bad enough coming from me, so I don't want to hear it from you. Got it?" Jim shuffled his feet, and Blair had to repeat his command. "I said, got it?" 

"Yeah, I hear you." 

"Good." 

Jim cupped the side of Blair's cheek with his hand. "When did you ever get so smart?" 

"Just lucky, I guess." 

He smirked at his irony, but he didn't remove his hand. Blair's coarse beard brushed his open palm -- a jarring sensation -- so incongruous to what Jim remembered, even though the warmth was the same, and those open, vulnerable blue eyes were the same. His thumb traced his cheekbone, underneath those eyes. How could he have just accepted Blair's friendship demand five years ago? How could he have ever let go of someone who made every nerve go crazy? How could he have not fought for the only man he knew who made his heart vibrate. 

Looking up at him, Blair could see the faraway look in Jim's clear blue eyes -- how his stoic control seemed gone as he gazed down at Blair. 

"Now what are _you_ thinking?" the guide asked. 

"It's been such a long time, Blair." He swallowed nervously. "I was just wondering . . . Can I . . . can I . . . kiss you? Just once? Just once?" 

Blair's full lips spread in a mute invitation. Jim waited, so unsure, so afraid to make the wrong move, when he felt Blair tug on his flanks. 

Jim's heart was racing. Sweat broke out on his forehead as he lowered his mouth closer, closer, his breathing erratic, when he felt the electric brush of moist skin. He whimpered as those lips pressed closer, tighter, moving against each other delicately. /This is happening!/ his brain screamed, and his heart swelled, shoving his lungs aside and making it even harder to breathe. When Blair's mouth opened, his knees began to shake and his hands gripped Blair's upper arms for support. That soft, slick tongue parted his lips, made contact with Jim's, and the sentinel moaned as his arms enveloped his guide's upper back and pressed him against his chest. /This is happening. This is happening. I've waited so long for you, Blair. So fucking long. Please make this kiss last forever. Please./ 

But something was wrong. 

Blair was trembling. Hard. 

Jim felt a knife draw through his breastbone as he ended their first kiss after so many years. 

Blair slumped against his chest, gasping. 

"You okay?" 

"Why? . . . Why does something that feels so right . . . hurts so much?" 

An imaginary hand clenched a fist deep in Jim's throat. He held the man he loved for a moment longer, before he said with a scratchy voice. "Come on. Let's go." 

"Do what?" 

"This is too soon. Let's go do something else. Let's go find a game on TV, like old times." Jim darted out of Blair's room, collected the two glasses of wine, and headed for the sofa. Blair remained in his old room for a while, trying to regroup. That kiss had been, for one small moment, something crystalline and pure. It hung right above his stomach like a small, cold, round marble that sent chills through his body. Twisting his gold ring nervously around his third finger, he silently left the guest bedroom and crept towards the sofa, sitting down beside Jim just as he turned on the television and began searching for ESPN. 

Like a small, tired boy, he placed his cheek against the side of Jim's shoulder. Jim responded instinctively by draping his arm around his love, holding him tight. As the baseball game played, the dark green field marked by the white hyphens of ranged players, Blair focus on Jim's warmth, and on the sensation of his index finger tracing shapes on Blair's left shoulder. It was so soft, almost a physical whisper, and it almost made him shiver as the muscles around his spine relaxed. He wanted this to be right. He needed it. But the constant impression that he was being unfaithful to a man who had loved him with all of his heart and life dragged him away from that life boat. Small dots of color from the television reflected off his gold band. 

He knew he would never take that ring off his finger. Rafe would always be a part of him. 

But Jim was a part of him, too. And as awful as it made him feel to think this, Rafe would have to understand. 

He was not whole without them both. 

And he would not give either of them up. 

Taking a deep breath, he told Rafe he loved him, that he would always love him, and that there would be a part of his heart that would always, forever, unconditionally, belong to him. 

But another part . . . belonged to Jim as well. 

"Jim?" 

"Yes?" 

"Can I . . . stay?" 

Looking up finally at the man, Blair saw that his eyes were rimmed with water speckled with the colors of the TV. Jim drew him closer, towards his lips for a second, tentative kiss. Blair's hand found the corner of his jaw, holding his neck as he opened his mouth again for Jim to claim him. The sentinel's kiss deepened, and he recognized the bristle of Blair's beard. He explored Blair's mouth, something so familiar and true, but different, new, as he learned where Blair's tender lips ended and his trimmed beard began. 

Letting Jim possess him finally, pressing him down on the sofa so his strong body could lay across him, Blair let the floodgates open and the emotions coursed through his chest. The guilt was there, but the guilt would always be there -- a bitter-sweetness -- but he could no longer banish himself. There was a life without Rafe -- or a life without Rafe and Jim both. It hurt -- it caused his ribs to suffer -- but another swell mixed with it -- a feeling of comfort. Of reassurance. Of being nursed. 

He sensed a restoration. 

Jim held him close, clutching his slender, misfortune-wracked body, moaning as Blair's legs hooked behind his hips, hugging him tight. He didn't know if this was right. Didn't know if this was the time, but he did know that on all the occasions when he had tried to question Blair's judgement, he had ended up brutally hurting the man. Tonight he would trust him. 

His hands roamed across his guide, rediscovering him, recalling with each gasp the areas on Blair's body where he was most responsive. His lips sucked on Blair's bearded chin, then grazed on his neck, nibbling and sucking and marking him like some long-suffering Odysseus, returning home. Blair arched his back beneath him, his hands pulling on Jim, wanting him, riding the swell of his need. "I love you," Jim began like a chant. "I love you. I love you. With all of my heart. I never stopped. I just waited. It never went away. Please stay with me forever." 

* * *

Summer sunlight broke through the morning clouds and shone through the skylights of the loft. Waking slowly, Jim felt the body in his arms. Last night had been sweet, tender and very slow. It wasn't about sex. It was an intimate dance as both men relearned each other's bodies. Both of them shifted around Rafe's immaterial form, coming to an unspoken understanding that there could both be a living love and cherished memories. Hands slowly moved across flesh, and after a long tangle of kisses and bites, mouths hungering to taste hard shafts again and fingers probing, Blair had come with a shout, while Jim shuddered from his mutual explosion. 

And settling down to a quiet, dreamless sleep, they knew that borders had been crossed, and no wars had been declared. 

Moving slowly, Jim kissed Blair on his shoulder. Pressing his lips on that skin again made him glow with the sense of salvation. "Good morning, Chief." 

Burton jumped up from the foot of the bed, scrambling over them both to lick Jim in the face. 

"Not you. I meant Blair." He gently pushed Burton away. "Jeez, I can see this is going to take some getting used to." 

"For all three of us, I imagine." 

"How are you feeling this morning?" 

"A little shell-shocked." 

The cold fingers of fear crept into his gut. "Are you okay with this?" 

"I will be. This is what I want. I don't think I can turn back now." 

Jim kissed him again, between the shoulder blades. "I love you, baby." 

"I love you, too." 

"Are you hungry?" he asked. 

"I didn't come all this way for you not to make me breakfast afterwards." 

"All this way," Jim whispered. "It felt like forever." 

Blair rolled over to face Jim, and he pressed a chaste kiss on his forehead. "I want to stay this time." 

Jim grinned, and he asked, "What . . . what made you decide to come back?" 

"Your shoulder. You said I could lean on it when I need it." He averted his eyes, before slowly pulling them back to face Jim. "It was . . . too far away to reach." 

Jim closed his eyes, letting out a heavy sigh of deepest relief as his head sank in his feather pillow. He was too afraid to question this feeling of rapture. He knew, and he chose, to just feel it coursing through his veins and not even think about the darkness of the past, or the uncertainty of tomorrow. He was in bliss, now, for this moment. 

Burton forced his way between them, snuggling against both of their chest. Jim smiled and hugged them both. "Uhm, Blair?" 

"Yeah?" 

"Can we wait a while on breakfast?" 

"I guess. What's wrong?" 

"Nothing's wrong. It's just that . . . I've been dreaming of this moment for such a long time, and I want to enjoy it for as long as I can. For as long as it will last." He kissed Blair deeply, his tongue sweeping into his mouth, just as Burton licked them both under their chins. 

**FINIS**


End file.
